A Universe of Infinite Possibilities
by MasquedTwinkie Productions
Summary: "And even though my world was unrecognizable and upside down, there was one thing that remained the same. You were my friend and you told me the truth. Even when the world was falling apart, you were my constant, my touchstone." A collection of ways Oliver and Felicity meet in unrecognizable worlds, but always manage to be each other's constants.
1. Chapter 1--User Interface

**Story Title: User Interface (Masque)  
Word Count: 4346**

**Notes: **Okay, I think we're totally excited to get this on the road! :D MysteriousTwinkie and I have been working on this for the past few days, trying to get into the swing of AU. Twink had an amazing list of AUs, and somehow we ended up splitting them down the middle. So, here's my first one, the **cyborg/human AU**. Reviews are appreciated, but mostly we hope you enjoy it. :D

—Masque

* * *

Felicity groans as she slides under the small, ancient ship in the hangar _again_, wondering why she keeps repairing the damn thing. Then she remembers it's because the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Singh, keep bringing it in, instead of buying a new starship with the fortune they probably have stashed under their mattress. It's a waste of time because the ship is a junker, and all the local mechanics have started to bow out because it's not worth the money they're putting into it. But, so long as the Singhs can keep bringing in the cash (who doesn't use credit chips these days?), she'll do whatever they want to it.

Sighing, she prepares for the worst part, ensuring that the hangar bay doors are closed before she pulls the panel away from the back of her neck, exposing the junction where her control panel connects with her spinal cord and brain. Nimble titanium fingers in work gloves find the loose interface wire with practiced ease, and she connects it to the ship's control system.

It's one of the most horrible things she ever does, interfacing with a starship. They're bulky and… _empty_, as though no creative thought is allowed when one is every inch of a massive ship. The new ones aren't much better about it, but, then again, most mechanics _can't_ interface with a ship. They have robots for that, but Felicity finds them more than a little creepy—and expensive. She's not about to shell out six thousand clocks on a robot when she can do the same thing. Screw uncomfortable; she works too hard for less than Earthen Union pay standards to earn her Labor Hour Credits—commonly called "clocks"—and she's _not_ going to blow her savings unless she has to.

She tries to start the ship, and it stalls out immediately. She can see the gauges in her own user interface on the left side of her vision, and it's clear by the readings that the starting mechanism is done for. Not wanting to waste any more time on it, she reaches up and yanks out the wire, severing the connection without waiting for the connection to sever automatically. It makes her dizzy afterward, as always, but at least she doesn't have to spend another second in the brain of the ship.

After clarity returns, she takes a moment to pull up the repair ticket details on her retina display. In the "Initial Exam" section, she quickly types with nothing more than her own thoughts, "Starter mechanism failure, most likely electrical: stalls out when converter pressure isn't evenly applied, i.e. after ignition. Wires may be faulty. Converter possibly damaged and/or needs repair. Check ignition mechanism for shorted circuits." She drops down a line before adding, "Initial recommendation: Replace starship with newer model. Ship has repeated history of faulty wiring, system malfunction, and part repair/replacement. Contact owner before further work is performed." She adds her initials to the end before she syncs the information with the two computers that matter—the records system in the lobby and her assistant's.

She makes sure her panel is closed properly before using the rollerboard to slide out, and she finds Roy standing there with eyes on his portcom, a small touchscreen device he's never seen without, where he's most likely looking at the details she just synced with him. "Hey, boss," he says without preamble, "we've got a few new jobs sitting in the lobby."

Roy is the only human she's ever met who doesn't mind working for a cyborg, and he doesn't seem to treat her any differently than any human. Felicity thinks it might have something to do with the cyborg who used his titanium arm to save Roy's life, but it could be because he's just a good kid, even if he tries to pretend otherwise. She often acts like she's not fond of him, but his rare smiles are contagious and those amber eyes are always filled with excitement when she tells him more about the business.

"I've told you a thousand times not to call me 'boss,'" she replies instantly. She's not _anyone's_ boss; she's a cyborg at the bottom of society's totem pole. "For God's sake, call me Felicity or Smoak or something—hell, I'd even settle for 'Blondie' at this point."

He snorts at that, but doesn't reply to it. But she knows he hears her because his next question is, "So, call the Singhs, Blondie?" He offers her a rare grin, extending a hand to help her up from the rollerboard. It's a kind of chivalry she's unfamiliar with; _no one_ dares touch a cyborg. Apparently, growing titanium parts is contagious—or, at least, the general populace seems to think so.

She takes the offer, and it's only afterward that she realizes she used her cyborg hand to take his. She expects him to let go immediately, but he doesn't seem to think about it. "Thanks," she mutters, then, just for fun, she wipes her gloves on his red hoodie, adding another grease stain to the collection, earning herself a chuckle. "Yeah, call the Singhs and tell them this thing"—she pats her right, human hand against it twice—"is shot to shit. They'll want me to repair it anyway, but try to convince them that I _strongly_ recommend that they just replace it. They're thirty-five hundred clocks used, and it will probably cost around sixty-five hundred to fix it. It's time to put the old girl out of her misery."

Roy shrugs. "I'll do my best," he answers, starting to walk back toward the office. He turns midstep. "Oh, and the next one is someone here to see you about a portcom problem."

"What kind of problem?" she asks, pulling her gloves off so that she can redo her falling ponytail. "Did you try hitting it against the desk? That fixes most glitches."

She switches out her hangar glasses for her office pair, frowning as her eyes adjust to the better vision afforded to her by the second pair. She has one pair reserved for mechanic work in the hangar because they get mangled fast otherwise. She probably could pay for surgery for vision correction—_if_ she was fully human. But, as a cyborg, no one will touch her for any elective surgeries. Truthfully, they'd probably let her die on the table for any emergency ones, too.

"The dude won't talk to me," Roy answers with a shrug. "I introduced myself, and he said he'd only speak to _Mr._ Smoak." She unzips the mechanic's jumpsuit and shrugs out of it, and Roy's eyes focus on the long-sleeved purple henley underneath—the one she likes to wear under the jumpsuit because it clings so tightly that it doesn't bunch up. Her dress pants aren't so lucky, but the wrinkles pull out easily. "He's gonna be surprised when he sees _you_."

Roy seems to think it's funny that everyone automatically thinks she's male and in her sixties, but she doesn't find it so amusing. Still, Felicity enjoys the ability to bask in the anonymity of the shop; everyone thinks she's just some poor cyborg slave working for her master as an office temp. That's why she started wearing dress clothes under her jumpsuit—she earns fewer odd looks that way. And, well, if she has a smear of grease across her face every now and again, everyone just assumes she's good for a quick lay against a starship.

After all, she _is_ just another cyborg slave.

"I hired you to handle the office drivel, Roy," she chides him for the umpteenth time. "That includes unruly customers who don't want to answer to a nineteen-year-old mechanic." She crosses her arms, her titanium left hand gleaming as if to reinforce her next point: "No one wants to listen to a twenty-five-year-old, _female_, _cyborg_ mechanic and tech expert." She puts her hand on his shoulder, but she makes sure it's her right hand, the one that actually has turquoise fingernails. "Starling Repair is the best repair shop in this city, and people will keep coming back, even if we piss them off. Because they can't afford to do business elsewhere. We know it and they know it. If anyone gives you grief, tell them to turn on their simulators and fly a kite."

He chuckles. "Fair enough, Blondie," he says, and she thinks she might have gotten through to him this time. "I'll go call the Singhs, if you'll take on Mr. Mysterio in the lobby."

She blinks twice, trying to refrain from rolling her eyes so soon after regaining control from the ship. "Please tell me that's not the name he gave you."

Roy frowns. "He didn't give me anything," he repeats. "I just thought it was fitting—he has his hood pulled over his face like he's the Arrow or something." He snorts derisively before leaving to find the nearest phone.

Felicity decides it's time to leave herself, moving through the hangar to the office. The mention of Starling City's underdog hero makes her smile a little; maybe she's rooting for the only guy who is fighting the corruption in the city. Whether he knows it or not, most of the bad guys he's gone after have owned cyborgs, and, when their "owner" is killed or imprisoned, those poor souls are released from their lives of servitude according to the law. Of course they're in litigation, since no human wants a free cyborg running around, but Felicity thinks it will be a step forward if she's not the _only_ free cyborg in Starling any longer.

The thought leaves her as she walks into the crowded lobby, with multiple clients lined up with their various devices and machines. All of them, save for one, focus on her as soon as she enters staring at her proudly uncovered cyborg hand. She's fairly certain her control panel door isn't hidden by her ponytail, but she doesn't see the need to hide what she is. She always finds it interesting how humans _made_ her this way as a child, but yet _they_ seem embarrassed by her. Vaguely, she wonders if her father would have saved her life with his technology if he'd known what a pariah it would make her. Maybe he would have let her die instead.

Their newest client, the one who doesn't acknowledge her, is unmistakable in the gray hoodie, and Felicity has no doubts that this schmuck is the one Roy has had trouble with. That's strike one already against him. "Sir?" she calls brightly to him, in her best human-services voice.

She watches him look up, watches as his eyes meet hers, then slide down to the metallic gleam of her left hand, then fall on her face again. Her retina display flashes in the left corner, unhelpfully naming the client she was able to identify moments ago on her own. "I'm supposed to direct you to our tech support office."

He doesn't say a word, but he _does_ follow her back to her office. She waves to a chair in front of her desk, and he sits. "When will Mr. Smoak be in?" he asks quietly, his voice soft and clear.

She sits down on the opposite side of the desk. "I'm Felicity Smoak, and this is my repair shop." She clasps her hands together, not even noticing the cold metal anymore. She's had a lifetime to adjust to her… _enhancements_, and they don't bother her nearly as much as they seem to bother humans.

His eyes flick up to her, appraising her in a new light. He studies her with a level of intelligence she doesn't expect from him, and, though his eyes seem to tilt to her metal hand every now and again, he doesn't exactly seem disturbed by it. "I'm Oliver Queen," he says, after he pulls back the gray hood of his jacket.

She rolls her eyes. "It doesn't take my retina display to figure _that_ one out," she replies dryly, then frowns because she should _not_ have said that. Only the worst reconstruction cases have retina displays and computers in their brains, and that's far more personal information than she wants in the hands of Oliver Queen. She rushes on to say, "Your pretty face has been plastered all over the news feeds since you came back."

That doesn't help her case, so she waves a hand. "Well, 'pretty' is probably the wrong word—probably something along the lines of 'handsome,' I guess." She watches a smile turn up the corners of his mouth and she wishes that a starliner would come along and beam her up. "I mean, not that I'm calling _you_ handsome. I just think it's a more masculine word for that. Not that I'm saying you're _not_ handsome, either. I'm just going to remain ambivalent on the whole thing." She runs a hand over her forehead. "And I'm pretty sure you didn't come down here to listen to me babble. Which will end. Soon." She closes her eyes as she counts, "Three… two… one." She lets out a deep sigh and opens her eyes to find a very amused Oliver Queen sitting in front of her. But, then again, he's probably used to women falling all over themselves around him.

She finds herself very glad that the computer part of her brain has already initiated cooldown so that she doesn't blush. They didn't want her _human_ functions damaging the machinery, so she doesn't even have _blushing_ anymore. "So," she adds, clearing her throat, "what can I do for you, Mr. Queen?"

"Oliver," he corrects instantly, a bit of a chuckle in his voice as he flashes her a particularly loaded, charming smile. "Mr. Queen was my father."

"I remember," she replies dryly, thinking of how her mother sold the cyborg technology to Queen Consolidated after her father died. She remembers being paraded in like a freak so they could observe the full extent of her cyber-replacements, and she remembers Robert Queen asking questions as though she was a specimen in a jar and not an actual person. Nineteen years later, though, she's become quite familiar with that look. "What can I do for you, Oliver?" she repeats.

He pulls out the remnants of what might have been a portcom at some point, holding it out to her. When she reaches for it with her left hand, not thinking about the prosthetics she's had a lifetime to get used to, and he drops it on the desk immediately. She frowns, rolling her eyes, but they widen as she recognizes the burns in its screen. "These look like _laser pistol_ burns." She looks up at him, the question probably written all over her face, though she voices it anyway. "What happened to this poor thing?"

"I found this portable computer"—he seems hesitant of the wording, and Felicity realizes he was trying to survive in the North China Sea when portcoms became a thing—"on the street, and I wanted to return it to its owner." He hesitates. "But then I saw the damage, and I thought I should make sure there's nothing on it that breaks the Data Transmittal Act first." He flashes her a genuinely false smile that must fool everyone else, judging by the confidence underneath it. "The police and I don't exactly get along as it is."

She understands his concerns; they've really cracked down about what gets passed around the 'Net, and anything suspicious means jail first—ask questions later. No weaponry information, no blueprints, no hacking tips, no porn, and no online prostitution. Still, she raises an eyebrow at him. "And you found this on a _walk?_" she asks incredulously. She's almost certain his story is crap, but it's too early to call him on it.

He offers her another ridiculously charming smile, this one just as insincere as the last. "I made a turn into a bad neighborhood," he offers, and she's a little disappointed because it's not even a _good_ lie.

She doesn't even dignify that with a response, turning her head to the side with a sigh. It's fine if he wants to sell her bullshit, but that doesn't mean she's buying. It earns her a genuine smile this time, and she takes that as victory. She frowns. "You know," she answers finally, "if you wanted to know what was on this thing, all you had to do was ask. I don't have to turn in any questionable material against the Act so long as you don't directly say this belongs to you."

She plugs it into the portcom dock on her desk so that she can analyze the information on the working screen, but she knows it would be faster if she actually connected it to her own interface. Still, she's already been stared at like a freak enough for one day, so she decides to do it the old-fashioned way.

Oliver seems to be in a conversational mood. "Your 'Net ad is a little misleading," he starts casually. "Starling Repair Shop, owned and operated by one F. Smoak—'Keeping Starling's technology and equipment running for forty years.'" She's surprised he's able to quote the ad correctly without reading it from the portcom.

She looks at him. "It may be misleading," she admits as she waits for the analyzer to read off the contents, "but it's true. Starling Repair has been in business since the days of personal computers." She shrugs. "I just haven't always been the one running it."

She starts to say something more, but then she realizes she doesn't owe Oliver Queen a damn thing. He doesn't need to know that she'd been working here since she was six, fresh out of her cybernetic operation and desperately in need of something to think about other than the excruciating pain. And he won't care that it was her grandfather who placed an early model tabscreen in front of her face and showed her how to fix it.

Fortunately, the analyzer dings, and she motions to the stationary screen on her desk. "Roll your chair over and we'll look at this," she says finally. He does as she asks, his arm knocking against hers as he leans to look at the screen on the opposite corner of her desk. He immediately draws back, staring down at the metal appendage, and it frays the last of Felicity's nerves. "Oh, for God's sake," she snaps, and wide eyes meet hers. "It's a titanium-interface limb, not a porcupine. It's not going to hurt you to touch it."

It takes him a moment of too-intense staring to respond. "That's not why I've been careful," he says slowly. He stops for a moment before continuing, "We have an emergency clean room at the house, just in case anyone needs an emergency operation after hours. Most of the patients"—she likes the way he avoids the word "cyborg" with practiced ease—"don't want their cybernetics touched."

Her eyes widen a little as she processes their interaction in a new light. His actions, which she had previously construed as disgust for her condition, were a sign of _respect_. She isn't quite sure what to do with that information; perhaps it's been too long since she's been respected by anyone. "Sorry," she says quietly, and, louder, adds, "and thank you. But I've been this way a long time. It doesn't bother me."

His arms slides against hers as he looks at the screen, in silent acceptance of her apology while not prying further. "So, what is this?" he asks, pointing to a small, blue icon next to a string of code.

She touches it, and it pulls up a set of transferred blueprints. "Looks like blueprints. And this breaks the Data Transmittal Act," she answers, "so it's a good thing you _found_ this on the street." She hopes her emphasis indicates she's still not buying it, and it earns her a breathy sound akin to a chuckle.

"Do you know what of?" is his next question, and it confirms what she already knows to be the truth. He's clearly taken this from someone on the seedier side of the law; any _honest_ citizen would have already started begging her to turn it into the police.

She looks between him and the screen, motioning between them in confusion. How could he _not_ know this building? "This is the Exchange Building." It earns her a blank look. "This is where the Unidac Industries auction is supposed to take place tonight." Her eyebrows furrow together. "You should already know this—Dr. Steele and Queen Consolidated are competing for the company." She frowns and then corrects herself, "Well, for the intellectual property rights. Unidac produced the old tabscreens, and rumor is that they've come up with a better, competitive cybernetic program that they were about to unveil—before they went bust, anyway." She looks back at the display. "It's a good idea—take over the competition. This belongs to another of the competitors."

"Floyd Lawton," he answers quickly, and Felicity draws a blank at the name, though it does make her smile. Clearly the truth is optional in Oliver Queen's world.

"No, Warren Patel," she corrects, turning back to him. "My guess is that your friend Lawton is working for Mr. Patel." She crosses her arms. "You should turn this into the police before you get caught with it."

Something flickers in his expression. "I think that's good advice," he agrees easily, then holds out his hand. "Thank you, Felicity."

She wants to say something snarky on the spot, remind him that she didn't give him permission to use her first name, but she lets it go because respect is a very rare thing in her world. "You're welcome, Oliver," she responds as she shakes his hand. She hands him the portcom, and he tucks it back into his jacket.

He pulls out his own portcom, typing a few numbers into the touch screen. "I trust that's an acceptable payment?" he asks, waiting as if he wants her to pull up the details on the _analyzer_, of all things. Clearly technology isn't his thing.

Instead, she pulls account information up on her retina display, and her eyes widen as she sees the amount. "Mother of Google, that's ridiculous—even _I'm_ not worth that much," she says instantly, then transfers half of it back. "There. Now I'm suitably overpaid."

He checks the screen again, blinking twice in surprise as he reads the transfer. He looks up at her. "How did you…?" He trails off, unsure of how to continue.

She points to her left eye. "Retina display," she answers, and he doesn't seem to understand the significance. "It's like having a portcom in my head."

He nods once, unsure of what to say, and she doesn't blame him; most cyborgs aren't so honest about their specifications. His portcom dings, and he frowns at the screen for a moment before looking back at her. "Are you working tonight?" he asks suddenly. She's immediately on edge, not sure of where this is going, and he seems to understand her hesitance. With a smile, he adds, "QC's chief technologist just cancelled for the auction tonight—apparently he has a horrible case of food poisoning. And Walter is going to need someone to explain the patents up for grabs tonight." He shrugs at her skepticism. "He asked if I knew anyone."

She thinks about it a moment, then pulls up comparative figures for the month's profits, noticing that she's down a little this month. After-hours work costs aren't cheap, and she could use the extra boost in income if she's going to pay herself this month. "It won't come cheap," she warns, "but I don't have any other obligations tonight."

He types into his portcom, and it chimes back immediately. "Walter says money is no object," he answers, not that it surprises her. He looks up. "It's a black tie affair. Where can the hoverlimo pick you up?" She balks and he chuckles. "Queen Consolidated always arrives together—something about a show of solidarity."

"Here is fine," she says immediately, knowing she'd rather be in her comfort zone, amongst her hangar full of damaged ships and hallways full of malfunctioning robots.

He offers her a genuine smile that immediately makes her wary, as though he's just roped her into something more than she expected. He pockets his portcom and pulls his hood over his head. "See you at seven, then," he adds before easing out the door, leaving Felicity in a whirlwind of a stupor.

That's where Roy finds her. "Hey, I called the Singhs and—" He stops, taking in her expression. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she answers, then turns her frustration on him. "Why didn't you tell me that _Oliver Queen_ was sitting in my lobby?"

He looks just as surprised as she was. "You know I don't follow any of the feeds on stars that are over twenty-five or male," he answers immediately. "The only Queen I know about is Thea." It seems to sink in then, and he points with his stylus toward the lobby, over his shoulder. "_Really? That_ was Oliver Queen?" He shakes his head. "Don't get why he's such a heartthrob, then. Kinda seemed creepy to me." He looks at her. "But I guess it went well for you."

"Yeah, you could say that," she says, a little breathlessly. "He just landed me an after-hours job with Walter Steele—apparently they're missing a techie for tonight's auction." She frowns. "Wait, how did you know it went well?"

Roy shrugs. "Couldn't have been a bad guy if he didn't point out that giant grease smear across your forehead."

* * *

_Playlist:_

_"I Know What I Am" - Band of Skulls_  
_"Ambulance" - My Chemical Romance_  
_"Radioactive" - Within Temptation_  
_"Welcome to the Jungle" - Guns N' Roses_  
_"Hail to the King" - Avenged Sevenfold_  
_"Famous Last Words" - My Chemical Romance_  
_"Oceans" - Evanescence_  
_"Monster" - Paramore_


	2. Chapter 2--Visiting Hours

**Visiting Hours (Twinkie)**

"Thea, this is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas," said Oliver, pulling on a gray sweater over his head.

"It won't be _that_ bad," Thea replied. "What'd be really bad is if they were still calling volunteers candy stripers. I've seen what the guys wore. Little red and white striped vests, white pants . . . You'd look like the toughest one in the barbershop quartet!"

She pinched his cheek, and he flinched away from her. He didn't miss the hurt in her eyes, but the gesture had surprised him. Most of the time, he could steel himself for the contact because he could see it coming.

"You owe me, Ollie," she said, a note of anger creeping into her tone. He was hearing it in her voice more and more. "You owe me at least that."

He turned away from the mirror to give her his full attention. She was dressed in tight, sequined jeans and a shiny blue halter top, more suited for a night on the town than an afternoon volunteering at Starling General Hospital.

"Well, it's just one afternoon," he finally said.

"Yeah, it won't interfere with your busy evening plans to ditch your bodyguard and disappear for hours," she said. She reached her hand up tentatively and lightly patted his arm. "You can handle anything for one afternoon."

In the car, Diggle made judgmental faces in the rear-view mirror while Thea gave Oliver a rundown on how things worked at the hospital.

"No bedpans, thank God. You can help patients with little things, like fetching stuff and fluffing their pillows and crap like that. But you're not supposed to lift anyone or help them stand up. It's this whole insurance deal. I'm pretty sure I tuned out when they explained that."

She had a lot to say about the other volunteers, and one nurse in particular who, according to Thea, was a mortal enemy but probably just had a chip on her shoulder about a wealthy teenager slumming it with the mere mortals. Oliver couldn't get her to say much about the patients.

They arrived at the hospital, and Thea pressed the lanyard with her hospital ID into his hands.

"Take this," she said. "They get twitchy about people going in and out of patients' rooms."

"It has your picture on it," Oliver pointed out.

"No one's going to look that close, trust me. They just want to see that you're official. Everyone official has those dumb lanyards."

Dig made eye contact with Oliver in the rear-view mirror. "I'll drop off Miss Queen and be back here to accompany you in a few minutes, sir."

"Right." Oliver nodded at him. Though the man had agreed to join forces with him, their interaction had still been a little strained.

Oliver entered the hospital lobby and looked around. Thea hadn't told him where to go—he only knew that she worked on the sixth floor, the surgical unit. He took a chance and approached the information desk.

His natural charm overcame any hesitations the receptionist might have had about Oliver taking his sister's place for a day. He made up a story about wanting to get involved in the community now that he was back from the dead. He signed a roster, slipped the lanyard over his head, and pushed up his sleeves. Diggle materialized at his side as he walked to the bank of elevators.

"You don't have to be here," Oliver said to him.

"It's my job, Oliver. That doesn't change just because I decided to join your little crusade." Dig faced the elevator, arms crossed.

The sixth floor was sprawling but neatly laid out. The patient rooms were located off a circular hallway that ringed the nurses' station and a large waiting area with comfortable-looking couches and a complicated coffeemaker. Oliver checked in at the nurses' station. Jen, the nurse Thea had warned him about, clearly didn't hold a grudge toward _all _Queens.

"Oh, of _course_," she gushed when Oliver described his arrangement with Thea and told his little white lie. "We'd be so _happy_ to have you _join us_, Mr. Queen. Please make yourself at _home_. If you'd like, I can show you around _personally_."

"I'd really just like to have the same experience that Thea or any other volunteer would have had in my place," Oliver said with a grin. "No special treatment."

There was only one other volunteer on the floor for the afternoon. The white-haired woman named Lois linked her arm into Oliver's and steered him toward the waiting area, promising to show him the ropes if he'd figure out the coffeemaker.

Ten minutes later, Dig got the coffeemaker working, and Lois had filled Oliver's head with more information than he needed about every patient on the floor and a few that had already gone home. It seemed rude to Oliver to wave fresh coffee under the noses of people who probably couldn't have any, so he declined a drink.

Lois pushed the steaming cup at him anyway. "Take it to Miss Felicity, then," she said. "Room 652. It'll perk her up. And so will your face," she said with a saucy wink.

Felicity. Oliver wandered down the hallway, only vaguely keeping track of room numbers. What were the odds of coming across two people with the same unusual name?

"Felicity, isn't that the name of the IT girl you talked to at your father's company?" Dig asked. "Here it is, room 652."

Oliver knocked softly on the half-open door and then entered the room. The lights were off, but the vertical blinds had been drawn back from the large window that made up one whole wall of the room. The blanket-covered lump on the bed might have been a person—he couldn't be sure.

"Come closer," the lump mumbled.

He approached the bed warily. A hand crept up and pushed the blankets down to reveal a face. Her blonde hair was down and tangled, and her glasses were nowhere to be seen, but that was definitely Felicity Smoak squinting at him.

"Closer," she said, her voice sounding raspy.

Oliver took another step, drawing up close, his hip bumping into the bed rail.

Felicity moaned. "Oh, it smells like heaven. Can you just pass the cup under my nose?"

"It's for you, actually," he said. "Lois thought it would perk you up."

"Ah, Lois," she said dreamily." Good woman."

"Can you—do want me to help you sit up?" Oliver asked.

"It's one of those buttons," Felicity said, with a gesture toward a complicated remote control connected to the bed with a cord. "I don't know which one."

Oliver set the coffee on the night stand and picked up the remote. "Seems pretty straightforward." He pressed the button with an "up" arrow on it, and the bed rose in height. "Okay, that's not it." He pressed the "down" arrow, and the bed slowly dropped to its original height.

"Can you not hit any buttons until you figure it out?" Felicity asked. "You're making me queasy."

"Sorry." Oliver studied the remote. "Okay, I think I have it. Are you ready?"

"Go for it."

He pushed the button, and the lower end of the bed rose. Felicity drew up her knees.

"Damn." He tried the only other button, aside from the bright red one that surely would summon a nurse. It raised the upper half of the bed, putting Felicity in a more comfortable sitting position.

"Well, that was . . . fun, I guess," Felicity said. "Now who are you?"

"Wow, I guess I didn't leave much of an impression the other day." Oliver set the remote on the bed near her hand.

"We've met?" she asked, squinting at him. "I'm sorry. I can't see much of anything without my glasses, and I'm not sure where they went."

Oliver glanced around and found her glasses neatly folded on the night stand, close to the cup of coffee he'd just set there. He handed her the glasses. She unfolded them, set them on her face, and blinked a few times before looking up at him.

"Mr. Queen!" She struggled to sit up straighter, wincing, and ran her hands over her hair.

"It's Oliver," he reminded her.

She struggled to sit up straighter and ran her hands over her tangled hair.

"Oliver, wow," she said. "I wasn't really expecting any visitors. I must look awful."

"You're in the hospital, Felicity. No one expects you to be put together."

"Still. If I'd known you were coming, I would have at least tried to brush my teeth," she said. "How'd you know I'd be here? _I_ didn't even know I'd be here. Not until I collapsed at work yesterday and woke up in an ambulance."

His brow furrowed with concern. "Are you okay?" he asked. "What happened?"

"I had an emergency appendectomy," Felicity explained. "I'm okay now. Especially with this little guy." She opened her fingers to reveal a button connected to an IV pump. "He's pretty awesome, but he makes me hallucinate, which is kind of unsettling."

"'He'?" asked Oliver.

"Definitely a 'he.' Oliver, meet Neville the morphine pump." She sniffed the air. "Now were you serious about that coffee?"

"Absolutely." He picked up the coffee from the night stand and wrapped his hands around the cup, testing the temperature. "Is it okay for you to have this?" he asked. "Lois said it was fine, but I don't know what dietary restrictions are like after surgery."

"I'm on clear liquids until dinnertime," she said, reaching for the cup with grabby hands, like a child too young to ask for what she wanted. "Coffee, as it turns out, is a clear liquid as long as there's no cream and sugar in it. I had some with breakfast." She frowned, her nose crinkling. "Actually, it _was_ breakfast. That and some apple juice."

Oliver handed her the cup. Her fingers brushing against his own caused a shiver to ripple down his spine. What the hell? He hadn't felt anything like that since . . .

"Oliver?"

He sighed. He liked the way his name sounded on her lips. No Ollie. No disapproving tone. No expectations.

"What?" he asked.

"You went somewhere else for a minute there," Felicity said. "And judging by the look on your face, it wasn't a happy place."

"It's nothing," he said with a fake smile that stretched his face uncomfortably. It had always been enough to fool anyone else. But it was becoming clear to him that Felicity Smoak wasn't anyone else.

"Oh, it's something," she said, frowning again.

The way her nose crinkled was adorable, and Oliver found his smile widening, turning genuine.

"But it's none of my business," she continued. "Thanks for the coffee."

It sounded like a dismissal, but he was reluctant to go.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked. "You probably want to rest."

"I probably want more morphine," she said. "But stay. The company is nice. Maybe if you're here talking and distracting me, I won't see glowing green rabbits."

Oliver drew a chair close to the bed and sat. "That's what you hallucinate? Rabbits?"

She sipped on the coffee. "It could be worse. It could be a serial killer. Or a mad flock of kangaroos." She shuddered.

"Kangaroos, huh?"

"Don't get me started," Felicity said, waving her hand around. "Ugh. I really do need to hit this button again. Fair warning, though. I don't just see phosphorescent mammals—I also get really, really loopy. So don't hold me responsible for anything I might say under the influence."

Oliver grinned. "I'm kind of looking forward to it."

Felicity blushed. She stared down at the button like it was a much more complicated piece of equipment than it actually was.

"This makes me feel like I'm on _Jeopardy_," she mumbled. "I'll take Heavy Narcotics for two hundred, Alex." She pressed the button and finally dared to look up at him again. "Just do me a favor and try to forget anything I might say in the next few minutes, okay? Because if running into each other becomes a habit, things could get really awkward."

"I make no promises," Oliver said with a wink.

She blushed again and looked up at the TV. "I forgot that was on. I turned the volume way down when my doctor came in this morning."

Oliver craned his neck around to see the screen. It was some reality show about supermodels or fashion, or both. He was pretty sure he'd seen Thea marathoning it the previous weekend.

"This TV does not get enough channels. I just had my belly cut open and my organs rearranged. I don't want to watch the Food Network." She picked up the control and edged up the volume just enough to be audible. "I do have a scar now. I've always wanted a scar with a cool story behind it, but an emergency appendectomy isn't as cool as, I don't know, a BASE jumping accident."

"I'm pretty sure if you had a BASE jumping accident, it'd mean you were dead," Oliver said.

"What about heli-skiing? That's a thing, right? Where they drop you out of a helicopter and you ski down the mountain?"

"Why does it have to be an extreme sport?" he asked her. "Maybe you stopped a mugging or took a bullet for someone."

Felicity laughed drunkenly. "Nobody would ever believe that. It's pretty obvious my life is much more _The Office_ than it is _CSI_. And I like it that way."

Did she? He wasn't so sure. If she'd been completely satisfied with her existence as defined by the confines of her IT cubicle, she would have accepted the lie he told her when they'd first met. Instead, she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows and agreed to help him anyway. Felicity Smoak wasn't just some IT girl.

"Oh, there are two of you now," she said, her words slurring a little. "This is better than rabbits. Yay, morphine." She gave a weak fist-pump.

She fell silent then, and Oliver watched her sip her coffee and stare pointedly at the TV. He didn't miss the little side-eye glances she kept giving him.

"Still two of you," she said after a while. Her eyelids were starting to droop. "Should I name the other one? He needs an identity, or he'll always be in your shadow. Boliver? Fauxliver? Oliver 2.0?"

He took the cup from her hands and set down.

"You're really hot," said Felicity. "Both of you. Do you ever look in the mirror and get surprised by your hotness? Like, 'Damn, I'm hot! I forgot for a minute.'"

Oliver smiled. "I see scars when I look in the mirror. And they're not the kind you get from surgery."

"But you're more than your scars," she pointed out. "Like _way_ more. I think at least one of you should be shirtless," she mumbled. "It's only fair."

"I'm pretty sure partial nudity is against the rules for volunteers."

Her face fell. "You're volunteering. You didn't come just to visit me, did you?"

"My sister talked me into covering her shift today," said Oliver. "But if I'd known you were here, I would have visited you anyway."

"You should go," Felicity said, closing her eyes. "They probably don't want you to sit in one person's room the whole time you're here. Phyllis in Room 673 doesn't have any family. She could use a visitor."

"I think I'll let Lois take care of Phyllis," Oliver said, enclosing her small hand in his. "I've got my hands full right here."

"Oh, you're full of it, all right. Both of you. The other you hasn't spun me some ridiculous lie yet, but the day is young, and you both still have your shirts on."

He couldn't help but laugh. It startled her awake—startled him too—and they locked eyes for a moment. Then she sighed, and her eyes fluttered closed. Oliver reached up with his free hand and took off her glasses, hanging them from the neck of his sweater for safe-keeping. Then he took her other hand in his, for safe-keeping.


	3. Chapter 3--Appraisal Value

**Title: Appraisal Value (Masque)  
Word Count: 4918**

**Notes:** Originally, I had no idea what to do with a Staring at the Same Painting AU, but then context happened, and I sort of figured it out as I went along. :P I don't know if it comes off more _Leverage_ or Heist Society, but I've had a blast with it. ;) Anyway, enjoy!

**Painting mentioned in this one is supposed to be ****_Untitled VIII_**** by Willem de Kooning, and I suggest you take a moment to look at it before reading.**

* * *

It's a little-known secret that Felicity doesn't understand art. She's not a connoisseur, she's not a critic—hell, she doesn't usually even _like_ it. She can understand appealing colors, she can judge proper lighting, but she doesn't understand it the way some people do. To her, it's just a picture, not a masterpiece hanging on the wall. It doesn't speak to her the way it does some people, and she's personally glad because paintings should _not_ talk. But it frustrates her that she _can't_ understand it.

Someone in her line of work _should_ understand it.

The Starling Institute of Modern Art is quiet that night, but she expects it to be for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the day before the new exhibit opens, and everyone chooses to buy tickets on opening night because of the glitz and glamor. Secondly, it's the middle of the day, and most people have jobs that don't revolve around art, unlike hers. Lastly, the museum discourages people meandering about on the last day before security is fully in place; it understandably makes them a little nervous.

But none of that affects Felicity, so she chooses to stare at the waves of color, the corals, ceruleans, yellows, and jades that make up the newest acquisition. An art critic would have something wise to say about it, she's sure, but to her, it looks like someone threw paint on a canvas at random. But she supposes someone, somewhere understands it, or else it wouldn't have sold for thirty-two million dollars the previous year.

"See something you like?" asks a pleasant male voice from behind her, and she whirls on the spot. She knows those features immediately, as she's grown up seeing them on tabloid covers and in newspapers. Still, he looks different; he's not clean-shaven anymore, with stubble covering his jaw, and his hair cut shorter with none of its previous blond coloring. Still, only a fool wouldn't recognize those piercing blue eyes as belonging to one Oliver Queen.

She plays against his vanity, throwing him a flirty smile over her shoulder while pretending not to recognize him. "I'm an art student in a museum," she answers easily, letting her eyes fall over him in an appraisal similar to the one she was just giving the painting—and just as clinically detached. "I see a _lot_ of things I like." Felicity hates the flirting, but her goal is to be unmemorable, and the best way to do that is to pretend to be as disposable as every other woman in his life. "The question is," she continues archly, "do you see anything _you_ like?"

He's just as smooth as she's heard, moving to stand next to her, staring at the painting for a moment. His clasps his hands behind his back and stares at it a moment before turning back to her with a charming smile. "So far?" he counters, turning to her. Then he fixes those blue eyes on her, and she's struck by his sudden intensity. "Just one lovely piece of art. But I have a feeling that it's not for sale."

She turns back to the painting, if only to escape those eyes. "_Everything_ is for sale," she answers with her best coy smile, even though the _last_ thing she wants to do is flirt with _Oliver Queen_. "To the right bidder, of course."

"Of course," he echoes with a smug smile, as if the fool actually thinks he has her on the hook. As if he thinks she'd be interested in a flagrant womanizer like _him_. "I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Oliver Queen." He doesn't offer a hand to shake, and he only stares ahead at the painting, as though talking to it instead of her.

"Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Queen," she answers honestly for the first time in their conversation. "You're a little unmistakable, since your family owns most of Starling City—and owns half the paintings here." The truth feels good after all the lies, but she knows it's only a momentary reprieve.

"To be honest," he answers, "I'd be surprised if you didn't." He leans closer, more whispering than saying, "But, typically, introducing oneself is a socially acceptable way of asking for someone else's name." His smile falters for a moment, but he plasters it back in place. "And Mr. Queen was my father."

His father who died when _The Queen's Gambit_ went down five years ago, she remembers, but she decides it's not the best time to mention it. "I'm Felicity Smoak," she answers this time, and she wonders why she gave him _that_ name, of all of her options. She could have lied, but apparently she doesn't quite understand the concept.

He grins at that, as though he's _won_ something by earning her name. "So, Felicity," he starts casually, bypassing any attempt at formality, "I'll let you in on a secret." That's all he says for a long moment, and, when he turns to look at her, she realizes he wants her to ask for it.

Refraining from rolling her eyes, she practically purrs, "Don't worry, I'm _very_ good at keeping secrets." His eyes widen for a moment, and she thinks she might have laid it on too thick, but then he throws her another of those cheesy smiles.

He leans over to whisper in her ear, "I don't understand art. The only reason I'm here at all is because I need to find my sister a birthday present." He motions to the painting. "This seems to be one of her favorites, so I thought I might see if the owner would be willing to part with it." He tilts his head to the side. "But since you've been staring at it all night, perhaps I'll buy it for _you_ instead."

She scoffs. "I'm staring at it because I want to _understand_ it," she corrects, "not because I'm in love with it." She throws him another flirty smile, this time with a hint of a challenge. "But, if you're interested in buying, there's a sculpture of a really cute, pink balloon dog over there that I'd _love_ to have." She looks down at her fingernails for show. "Of course, it doesn't come cheap."

She should stop being surprised by how suave he manages to be, all the while pulling off that devilish charm, but she doesn't expect it when he replies, "The best things never do." He looks at her far too intensely as he says it, and she thinks she might have bitten off more than she can chew when she decided to flirt with _Oliver Queen_. He continues right into, "The museum is closing soon. We should continue this conversation over dinner."

She's tempted to walk out of the museum on his arm with that sentence, but then she wonders when _she_ became such an easy mark. "Not tonight, Oliver," she answers, surprising herself with the playful way she says his name. "I already have other obligations."

He winces, mostly for show. "Not with a boyfriend, I hope," he replies, testing the waters. "Of course, if you were mine," he continues, "I don't think I'd ever let you out of my sight." His eyes are too intense as he finishes the second sentence, and thinks he might actually be sincere when he says it. "I'd be afraid someone would steal you away."

She smiles over her shoulder as she turns. "It's not a date," she answers playfully, "unless you consider a nice evening at home with a canvas romantic." She shrugs. "I have an art project due tomorrow." She flashes him another false smile, this time reaching up to put her hand on his jaw. "It was nice meeting you, Oliver." With that, she walks away, leaving him to watch her exit the museum.

"You haven't given me a way to contact you," he calls behind her, and she thinks that maybe she laid it on a little thick because he actually seems to think she's _into_ him.

She waves a hand, never looking back. "Be here tomorrow night for the opening of the new exhibit." She stops to flash him another coy smile. "And we can discuss art again." This time he lets her leave, and, as she walks away, she thinks of what she's going to need for tonight's work. She doesn't even have to feel sorry for lying to Oliver; she _does_ have a date with a canvas. After all, a man in Buenos Aires has offered her sixty million for that ridiculous painting, and Felicity has never been one to quibble over cash value.

And, if the owner isn't exactly willing to sell, that's no problem for her, either.

* * *

Oliver pauses to study the museum's exterior again, ensuring that nothing has changed since the last set of blueprints. It's clear they haven't fixed the broken façade over one of the barred windows, giving him the handhold he needs to reach the roof. He takes a running start before jumping to grab the ledge of the window, then manages to reach up far enough to take the makeshift handhold. Surprisingly, it doesn't break under his grasp, so he uses it to pull himself up to the next window, even with the second floor

The guttering provides him with the next handhold, and he uses it to cross to a storm drain that he uses to pull himself up to the roof. There's a close call toward the top where a bolt is loose and it tilts, but he already has one hand on the roof by that point. With a reckless jump and a second handhold, he's able to pull himself up over the top of the roof, and he takes a moment to catch his breath before continuing on. After all, Oliver _does_ have all night, since a certain blonde decided to play hard to get.

Felicity was a unique twist from the other art students he's known (and sometimes dated) in the past. Unlike Thea, his aspiring-art-critic sister, she didn't try to explain the piece-of-crap painting in pretentious terms or convince him it was beautiful. She studied it, and, if she _did_ understand it, she decided to let him decipher it for himself. He was a little disappointed she hadn't accepted his offer, as she was just playful enough to be interesting, even if he thought that the _real_ Felicity Smoak wasn't the one standing in front of him.

Oliver's interest in art, however, is recently acquired and limited only to art _theft_. After returning from five years on a deserted island, he found himself a little bored and in need of excitement. On a whim, he used his skills he learned there to climb into a low-security apartment with a Cèzanne on the wall, and it was one of the biggest thrills he'd ever had. Now, he's caught the fever, and he steals, not for the money, but for the _fun_ of it all.

He decides he's taken enough time to rest, and so he swings open the skylight and examines the space between ceiling and second floor. It's a longer drop than he anticipates, so he pulls a special arrow from the quiver at his back and fires it into the roof next to the skylight. He pulls on it then, making sure it's secure, before using the cable attached to drop to the floor without breaking anything.

At first, the arrows had been a result of one he learned how to hunt with on the island, with the help of Yao Fei, but the media took to it when one of the security cameras caught footage of him in the green leather and with the bow. They started calling him "the Arrow," and maybe Oliver is vain enough to enjoy the publicity.

Once he plants his feet on the marble floor, he immediately chooses to turn for the vault, where the bizarre painting he discussed with Felicity will be stored until unveiling tomorrow. The museum had, foolishly, decided to give the populace a sneak peek tonight, and it had given him plenty of opportunity to plan his little heist tonight.

He ignores the security cameras, other than to turn his face away, and he charges down the flight of stairs to the first floor, closer to the underground vault. It's behind one of the "Employee Only" areas, but the lock on _that_ door is easy to break. It's a maze of hallways behind it, but he _finally_ sees the impressive steel door, complete with a dial and everything. He thinks that his explosive arrows were a good choice; they'll be able to break through that door easily enough.

He's two steps away from being in position when a steel grate slams down in front of him.

It's odd because there's no alarm, and he checks to make sure he hasn't tripped a wire of some sort. When he realizes he hasn't, he decides it's probably a silent alarm and turns to leave before he can be caught by the police. An instant after he turns, another steel grate drops down, ten feet away, leaving him effectively trapped.

Oliver is starting to wonder if he should blow a hole in the museum to try and escape, if he should let the painting go and move on, when a woman rounds the opposite corner. She smiles like a predator would at its prey when she sees him, her fuchsia lips just visible under the black mask she wears over her eyes. Blonde hair falls past her shoulders, pulled away from her face. Her coat isn't subtle; with its dark purple coloring, it stands out, even with its black lapels and accents. It falls to her thigh, even though the zipper in the center only travels from breastbone to waistline. Everything else, however, is black, from the shirt under her coat, to the low-heeled boots, to the leather pants that hug her legs like a second skin.

She walks up to the grate separating him from her, her veiled eyes studying him carefully. "You're not exactly what I was expecting to catch," she says cordially enough, her voice _oddly_ familiar. Her eyes wander over him, as though judging his worth as a thief. "But I can't say I'm displeased. You being here cuts down on my competition." She shrugs. "It's nothing personal—I hope you _enjoy_ prison. When's the last time a competitor has said _that_ to you?"

He decides to bypass half of that conversation because she's absolutely ridiculous. "What were you expecting?" he asks, after switching on his voice synthesizer. If she chooses to be so flagrant with her identity, that's her business, but he's giving _nothing_ away.

She studies him a moment longer. "I don't know," she answers finally. "I guess I thought that, with a name like 'the Arrow,' I was expecting you to be taller. Or bigger." She smiles before adding, "Or a little more aware when a girl isn't into you. Hint: if she doesn't give you her number, she's probably not interested."

It dawns on him quickly, hits him like a ton of bricks. Her voice is a full octave higher than the one she used with him, but it's definitely her. "Your date with a canvas was the one we were staring at," he states quietly. But she's already walking away, looking at the vault door.

"And I'm not really an art student, either," she answers, looking at the safe door instead of him. "More of a… _purveyor_ of art of, well… _dubious_ acquisition." She frowns, twiddling with the lock. "Damn it, it's on a time-release." She shakes her head. "I can hack a lot of things, but not a manual vault on a time release." She makes a sour face, clearly frustrated. "I mean, they have one of the best security systems in the _world_ here, and it took me _maybe_ ten minutes to gain entry. But I can't hack an old school safe."

He seizes the opportunity, since he knows how to spin that to his advantage. "If you let me out of here," he says carefully, "I could blow the door."

She turns to him. "First of all, I know that trick and it doesn't work on me." She motions to the safe. "Second of all, this is a _triple_-insulated safe—three layers of eight inches of steel each. It would take three explosives, and they'd have us in handcuffs before we even saw the painting—if you didn't blow it up." She crosses her arms. "Finally, that's not how I operate. I slink in, grab what I want, and slink out before anyone knows I'm there." She smiles. "That's why they call me the Dutchman—I'm like a ghost ship, always disappearing as soon as anyone gets close. As far as press nicknames go, you, my friend, drew the short straw."

She studies him a moment, drawing up to the steel grate again. "How much did your fence promise you for this painting?" she asks. He only crosses his arms and looks at her, not giving her any information without some in return, and she seems to understand. She sighs before adding, "I have a guy South America willing to pay sixty million dollars for this painting. I don't understand _why_, exactly, but I'm not exactly an art connoisseur. Personally, I don't get why a painting that resembles a watercolor I made when I was five sells for thirty million. I mean, if it was _Waterlillies_ or the_ Mona Lisa_ or _The Starry Night_, I'd get it. In fact, I'd steal them for myself, if they weren't all fakes on display. But this abstract, modern art crap isn't my thing. Except for the pink balloon dog statue—I wasn't kidding about that. I mean, how could you not love a statue of a—"

"Felicity," he snaps a little loudly, and she jumps slightly. She shakes her head, eyes wide, before she bites at her lip in embarrassment.

"My point is," she says firmly, as if daring him to interrupt her again, "is this guy is willing to pay _double_ what the painting is worth. I've sold to him before, so I know his money is good." What she says next is the last thing he expects: "We could split the money, both get out with exactly what we're worth." She pauses before adding, "Not that you need the money, but you know what I mean."

Oliver hesitates. "If it's worth thirty million," he asks slowly, "why is he willing to pay sixty?"

She rolls her eyes, as if he's a barbarian for even asking that question. "Because it's an _appraisal_ value," she answers. "That's how much some old guy with a Ph.D. in art history thinks it's worth." She leans closer. "But that excludes so many important things, like personal value and emotional value. I have a computer in my room right now—the first one I ever built myself. It's outdated and ancient—and _maybe_ it's worth twenty bucks. But even _you_ couldn't quote a figure high enough to convince me to sell it." She curls her hands around two of the iron bars, her face just above them. "And, while I don't get it, this guy clearly loves it enough to pay to have it stolen for him, whatever the cost."

There's some sort of passion in her voice that makes her particularly glorious, that intrigues him so much that he finds his hands on the bars above hers, his face only inches from her own "I don't steal for the money," he answers. "I steal for the thrill. You can keep the money if we can steal it together."

She gives him a disapproving look before turning away, pressing a button on what looks to be her phone. The grates ascend immediately. "You're just another W.W. Hale," she replies dryly. "Of course you are."

"Who?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together.

She turns to look at him over her shoulder. "Read a book sometime," is her answer, and then she's walking back the way she came. "Meet me in the first floor lobby at seven tomorrow. The unveiling is at nine, so I think that will give us _just_ enough time steal a masterpiece _and_ have an alibi for it." She's around the corner, then, and, just when he's about to return the way he came, she pokes her head around it, leaning backwards as blonde hair accentuates her actions.

"And Oliver? Don't be late."

* * *

Felicity enters the museum with her attention focused solely on her phone. She has to make sure the upload is running along smoothly, and she's pleased when it her phone chimes to alert her. She smiles at the print that reads "footage uploaded," and she knows the cameras in the building are no longer an issue. She looks up to find Oliver Queen staring off into the distance, and she wonders if he's as excited about this as she is.

Part of her is surprised to find him there, both on time and without an entire department of police officers to arrest her. It's why she typically works alone—because the saying is true; there _isn't_ any honor among thieves—but she can't exactly do this without him because it's a two-man job.

Actually, it's a one-woman, one-man job, and _that's_ what she's most nervous about.

Still, he's waiting on her in the lobby, and he's managed to pull himself away from his family engagements by the time she walks in. It takes him a moment before he sees her, first turning his head away before his eyes land on her again. He blinks several times, and she takes that as a good sign.

She was hoping she'd get that reaction from the one-shoulder number she picked, and she's pleased because he hasn't even seen the _back_ yet. It's held in place only by a single strap that travels from under one arm to the opposite shoulder, leaving her back otherwise exposed from shoulder to opposite hip, wrapping around her side slightly. It forms an asymmetrical hem, too, making an opposite diagonal from a rather high spot on her thigh to the opposite ankle.

She walks up to him with a wide smile, self-consciously smoothing her curls down in the back, so that they fall to one shoulder the way she means them to. She means to adjust her glasses, too, before she remembers she wore contacts. As she does so, his eyes slide over her in a way that make her blush, and she decides that it's her turn to say, "See something you like?"

He straightens the black tie at his throat and adjusts his cufflinks. "The question is," he answers finally, an odd tone creeping into his voice, "do _you_ see anything _you_ like?" He follows it with a smile, and Felicity thinks it might just be sincere.

"Always," she answers Then she leans up to him to whisper, "I'm a thief in an art museum—I _always_ see things I like."

"Let's go steal your painting," he answers back, his voice just as breathy as he says it into her ear, lips brushing against it.

He offers her his arm, and she takes it. He immediately starts toward the dark hallway that leads to the employee-only area, and she realizes that it's going to work just as well as she'd expected. He releases her to examine the door handle and the way it ties into the alarm system, looking up at her expectantly. "Can you hack this?"

"Of course I can," she answers immediately, following him to the door. She takes a moment to say goodbye to her dignity before she starts this mess. "But, unfortunately, I _can't_ hack the silent alarm system." He looks a little wary, and she matches the expression as she adds finally, "So we'll have to use a classic."

"A classic?" he repeats, and she slides between him and the door, pressing her back against it.

She ignores him because she's already nervous enough. She's never done this in the line of duty, and she hopes it's a one-time occurrence. "Try to sell it," she instructs, using his lapels to pull him closer to her, "but don't _oversell_ it." He towers over her, looking down on her with those crystal blue eyes she's come to know over the last day.

She takes a deep breath before muttering, "Now let's see if you're as good as they say you are." Before he can object, she snakes an arm around his neck, pulling his head down so that she can claim his lips with hers. At the same time, she turns the door handle, praying the security guards have a fast response time.

What she doesn't expect is Oliver. He sells the bit with perhaps a little _too_ much enthusiasm, one hand over her hip while the other roams over her back. He isn't exactly gentle while kissing her, but she didn't exactly ask him to be, either. In order to help sell the bit, she throws her leg over his hip, hiking the shortened skirt on her right side a little _too_ high for her liking. She's just about to change to the other leg when his hand on her hip falls a little lower and touches skin, and she gasps into his mouth as he slowly slides it down her leg to just above the knee.

She's almost forgotten that it's supposed to be a ploy when the security guards turn the corner, and she immediately blushes even though she _knew_ this was coming. Fortunately, Oliver takes over quickly, a lazy smile falling over his face as he says, "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

"You bumped the door," he answers, as though he's not paid near enough to handle this crap. He immediately turns, and the three others follow him as they walk away. She can hear him call on his radio, "It's just a couple getting their rocks off in a dark hallway. Area secure."

"Sorry," Oliver calls behind them, then he turns to Felicity and adds quietly, "that they interrupted us."

She slaps his shoulder while rolling her eyes, and he reluctantly lets her go. "Let's go before they come back." Without thinking, she takes his hand, pulling him along to the safe area.

"So, am I?" he asks suddenly, and she turns to look at him, eyebrows knitted together. With a smile, he clarifies, "Am I as good as they say I am?"

She has a battle with the truth for a moment, but then decides that maybe honesty _is_ the best policy. "Better," she admits without looking, her face heating. Oliver chuckles, and she's never so glad to see a vault in her life when they come up on the one housing her painting.

"Hello, beautiful," she says quietly to it, and she turns the latch out of curiosity. Surprisingly, it's open, and no one is preparing to move the painting yet. It sits against the back wall in all its glory, hanging in an over-priced frame.

"You know it's probably on a pressure plate, right?" he asks from behind her, probably watching her study the painting.

She forgets Oliver for a moment because now it's only her and the painting. She slides a hand into the dress and pulls out her switchblade, popping it open with the flick of the latch. "The _frame_ is on a pressure plate," she corrects quietly, not really focusing on her words, either. "The painting itself is not." She slices the knife under the edge of the frame, separating the painting from it. "Did you know that removing the canvas from a pressure plate typically doesn't remove enough weight that it will set off an alarm?" She releases the last edge from the frame, and pulls the painting out, shoving it off to the side while she folds the knife up.

She turns to find Oliver studying her and the knife with an odd expression. "Where did you keep_ that_," he asks, "in _that_ dress?"

She smiles as she rolls the painting up, handing it to him to hide under his suit coat. With a burst of daring and an adrenalin high from the act of theft, she answers, "Better question: would you like to find out?" She gets her answer when he drops the painting, his head snapping up to her. She bites her lip to hide a smile before sliding the knife back into place. She makes sure the painting is safely hidden before patting him on the shoulder. "Let's go before they come to get it for the unveiling."

He lets her lead them back to the dark hallway before stopping her with a hand on her arm. "Wait," he calls quietly, then reaches behind her to remove the pin in her hair, letting her curls spill over her shoulders and down her back. By way of explanation, he adds, "You've spent the last half-hour in a dark hallway with me." He flashes her a charming smile. "And I have a reputation to uphold."

Another burst of daring shoots through her. "You're right," she answers with a sly smile. She pulls his tie a little loose and reaches down to leave her lipstick on his collar before pressing her lips behind his ear. "After all," she murmurs against his neck, "a fake reputation seems to be all you have."

With that, she whirls and starts to walk away. "You can drop that by my place after you smuggle it out. Corner of Fifth and Oak, tonight at midnight."

He lets her go, but he does call behind her, "I'll look forward to it."

She smiles before replying without looking back, "You should, Oliver."

* * *

_Just a quick note: I have no idea if any of the museum robbery stuff is true, but, if it's wrong, good. I made it up on the spot, and I don't exactly want this to turn into some sort of handbook for crime. :P_

_Also, the painting sold at auction for $32.1 million. And the pink balloon dog statue actually exists; it was sculpted by Jeff Koons, and an orange one sold for about $56 million last year. Just in case you're interested in modern art. ;)_

_Playlist:_

_"Sparks Fly" - Taylor Swift_  
_"Break Your Little Heart" - All Time Low_  
_"(I Just) Died in Your Arms" - Cutting Crew_  
_"Monster" - Lady Gaga_  
_"If We Ever Meet Again" - Timbaland feat. Katy Perry_  
_"Fire" - Orianthi_  
_"More Than Alive" - The Ready Set_  
_"A Love Like War" - All Time Low feat. Vic Fuentes_  
_"Outta My Head" - Daughtry_  
_"I Gotta Feeling" - The Black Eyed Peas_


	4. Chapter 4--Interference

**_(A/N: Is it totally arrogant to say this may be my second-most-favoritest thing I've written for _Arrow_? Because it SO is my almost-favorite. The only thing that tops it in my mind is "Spelling," the auto-correct fail.)_**

**Interference (Twinkie)**

Filling out the profile had been a whim. A slightly drunken whim after some prodding from Tommy. Oliver and Laurel had broken up for the hundredth time, and Tommy convinced him that he needed to widen the dating pool. It was probably a good idea, since he kept running into girls he'd already had a thing with. He couldn't always remember their names, which made for some very awkward conversations.

Then the _Queen's Gambit_ went down, and Oliver spent five years thinking about everything _but_ his stupid online dating profile. He'd been back for a while, and after the disaster that was his brief relationship with Helena, Thea approached him one day with her hands behind her back and a smirk on her face.

"I have a surprise for you," she said, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Speedy, that is the scariest thing you've ever said to me." Oliver closed the book that contained the list and casually slid it into the top desk drawer. He stood up. "What's the surprise?"

"Well, it involves you having an open mind and no plans for Friday night. Here." She handed him her phone.

He looked down. The display showed a picture. A picture of a girl. She had on glasses and wore her blonde hair pulled back. The photo looked as if it was taken in an office. He could see gray cubicle walls in the background.

"Cute," said Oliver, giving back the phone. "So?"

"So she's your date Friday night."

"Excuse me?" Oliver stepped out from behind the desk. "Since when did my seventeen-year-old sister take charge of my dating life?"

"Oh, take your pick," said Thea, smoothing down her school uniform skirt. It was shorter than Oliver remembered. "Since you screwed it up royally by dating sisters. Since you disappeared for five years and came back all different and totally uninterested in being _happy_ with someone. Since you used your birthday as the password for your online dating profile."

"I don't _have_ an online dat—"

The conversation with Tommy came back to him. The way his heart hurt a little, even though he'd been the one to break it off with Laurel this time. The taste of whisky on his breath. Sloppily filling out the questionnaire, hardly paying attention to his answers. He'd only done it to keep Tommy from doing it for him.

"Damn," he muttered. "Show me," he said to Thea. "I don't remember what I wrote."

"Oh, forget what _you_ wrote," she replied. "You gave one-word answers and tried to be cute, but it just came off kind of smarmy. What _I_ wrote is much better."

Oliver grabbed for the phone, but she backed away. "Thea. Give it here."

"No, I don't trust you with it," she said, and dropped the phone down the front of her shirt. It stopped about halfway down, an absurd rectangle protruding from the school-issued button-down. "You'd just change it, or try to cancel the date or something."

"I won't go out with someone I've never even met."

She threw back her head and laughed. "Oh my God! Do you hear yourself? How many times have you banged chicks whose names you didn't even know?"

He winced. Ollie was like that. He wasn't Ollie anymore, hadn't been for a long time, and yet . . . he still carried the weight of all the dumb things Ollie had done.

"Okay, that was a little harsh," said Thea.

"But true," Oliver pointed out. "I was an ass."

"Totally, but I loved you anyway. Still do."

She wrapped her arms around him in an impromptu hug. He could feel the phone pressing into his chest, but there was no way he could get it from her until she was ready to let it go.

"Can I at least see what you wrote?" he asked. "I promise I won't make a grab for it."

"Fine." Thea let go of him and plucked the phone out of her shirt. She tapped and swiped at the screen, then held the phone toward him, keeping a firm grip on it.

"Well, the picture is okay. I think I remember you taking that a couple weeks ago."

They'd been in the kitchen one morning, chatting with Raisa while she cooked breakfast. Thea had held up her phone and told him to smile. Then they'd had an argument about whether or not smiling meant one's teeth had to be visible. He scrolled past the photo and skimmed the profile information.

_The first thing people notice about me: My chiseled jaw and winning smile._

_The one thing I am passionate about: Starting my own business, independent from my family._

_The three things I am most thankful for: my mother, my sister, and hot showers._

"Thea!" he scolded.

"What? I did a lot of research before I filled this out," she said, casually moving the phone out of his reach again. "A touch of wit and humor makes your profile stand out from the rest. I had to guess on a few of the answers, but you _are_ my brother. I know you pretty well."

She read Oliver a few more of the responses she had written. She had some surprising insight into the kind of man he was now, his secrets aside. Even the way she worded things sounded like him, back when he was still hopeful, untouched by the worst life has to offer.

"You put this on the internet for the world to see?" he asked. "Isn't it going to make headlines? 'Oliver Queen Strikes Out, Turns to Internet in His Search for Love.'"

"First names only," Thea said. "And it's not the whole world—just subscribers of ."

Oliver groaned.

"If it gets bad press, I'll take it down," she promised. "_After_ the date."

"It doesn't matter, then, because Tommy and I have plans Friday night," Oliver said, crossing his arms.

"Not anymore. I called Tommy as soon as I set up the date. I'm sure he'll show up any minute to give you crap about it."

Right on cue, the door flung wide open and Tommy stepped into the room.

"That's right," he said. "I come with crap to give."

"Tommy!" Oliver rushed over and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "My best friend Tommy." He squeezed his shoulder, shook him a little. "You can talk Thea out of this online dating nonsense."

"Is it nonsense?" Tommy asked, winking at Thea. "I was leaning toward 'fol-de-rol' myself, but then I realized, a) I have no idea what the hell that means, and b) it's actually a stroke of brilliance."

"Thank you," said Thea, giving him a little curtsey.

Tommy and Oliver began to argue, and then Mom summoned Thea. When she left the room, Oliver glared at Tommy, who was suddenly interested in his phone.

"Did you put her up to this?" he asked his friend.

Tommy laughed. "You're giving me way too much credit. I don't have the attention span for a long con like this. Your sister's the diabolical genius." He held up his phone. "She sent me the link to the girl's profile. She's cute, in, like, a sexy librarian way. And I'm pretty sure you haven't dated a Felicity before—I think I'd remember a name like that. So you won't have the awkward possibility of having a blind date with a girl you already slept with."

Oliver reached for the phone, but Tommy turned to the side and curled his arm around the phone.

"Awww, she's kind of adorable," he said. "Listen to this: 'My friends describe me as talkative, funny, and loyal. The one thing I wish more people would notice about me—that I'm more than a cute little blonde, and I'm more than just an IT girl.' Ooo, maybe _she_ could help you take down your profile. Girl's got skills."

Oliver made a half-hearted grab for the phone. "What else does it say?"

"'The one thing I'm passionate about—knowledge. I always have to know more. I hate mysteries. They need to be solved,'" Tommy read. He then fell silent.

"What does it say?" Oliver asked. "Are you reading it to yourself?"

Tommy looked up. "Oliver, you cannot stand this girl up. Look at her," he said, holding up his phone with her picture on the screen. She wore a pink shirt, and her smile seemed a little sardonic. Oliver kind of liked that.

"It would crush her soul," Tommy went on. "And then she'd sue your family for breach of contract or something."

"I hadn't thought of that," Oliver admitted.

"I'll bet. Look, man, all you need to do is go on one little date. She'll talk your ear off, she'll probably make you laugh one way or another, you'll walk her to her door, and then you never have to see her again."

"You make it sound so simple," Oliver said, looking at her photo.

"It _is_ simple," Tommy insisted. "It's like when your mom tells you to take out so-and-so because her father is such-and-such, the state senator, or judge, or obscure royalty. You're the one who's making it more complicated than it has to be."

"It would be rude to stand her up," Oliver conceded. "That would leave a bad taste in her mouth about the Queens, and even if she didn't sue, she could still go to the media."

"Wine, dine, and ditch, man. That's all you have to do," said Tommy. "And hey, you never know, she could turn out to be, like, The One, or something."

Oliver rolled his eyes.

Felicity had filled out the profile on a whim after a couple glasses of wine. was _the_ dating web site, according to Cynthia a few cubicles down. Cynthia never seemed to work. Instead, she flitted from office to office, dispensing advice, sharing gossip, and flaunting her tight runners' calves enhanced by the four-inch stilettos she habitually wore. Felicity didn't know what the hell she was doing in IT.

Nothing was ever supposed to come of it. Felicity had hacked the site and found the algorithm they used to generate matches. It was b.s. The algorithm looked like something a paste-eating kid would come up with, and it produced such a wide range of "matches" that Felicity didn't see how anybody ever found anyone they could stand for a few minutes, let alone date or even marry.

So she spent the weekend, sans wine, writing her own algorithm. It was easy to hide it in the system, cocooned in the original. And since it was tied only to her profile, she would get results that were actual matches, not just guys she had a thing or two in common with. There was a line of code written into the programming that would send an alert if a profile received _no_ matches, so she widened the parameters just enough to alleviate suspicion.

Felicity was dinking around on her tablet one day at lunch when she received an e-mail from . "YOU HAVE MATCHES!" it proclaimed like a loud, HTML-based _yenta_. She glanced around, feeling paranoid, but she was alone as usual in her snug corner of the cafeteria, almost hidden from a view by a tall potted plant. She tapped on the link within the message.

The link took her straight to her MyTrueLove profile, and she tapped on the little icon of an envelope with a heart on it. The heart was full when there were matches waiting to be viewed—a broken heart meant no matches. She'd been staring at a broken heart for four days, and it was silly to realize her spirits lifted a little at the sight of the heart made whole.

The web site listed matches in reverse order of compatibility. Felicity guessed it was to generate more web traffic. If you clicked on the best match for you right away, you wouldn't keep returning to the site. It also built anticipation for the best match, and she had to admire the marketing strategy. Too bad their genius didn't extend to their search algorithms.

Her first so-called match, Fabian, looked about fifteen years older than her father would be. She shuddered and went to the next match. Daniel seemed a little more promising, but he was really outdoorsy (she _so_ was not), and if his profile answers were any indication, he had no sense of humor.

"Screw anticipation," she muttered, tapping on the match at the bottom of her list.

"YOUR BEST MATCH!" the web site's text screamed. "NINETY-ONE PERCENT COMPATIBILITY!"

The profile loaded quickly, and when Felicity saw the picture, she spat out the gulp of Dr. Pepper she'd just taken. She grabbed some napkins and wiped off the tablet screen. Yes, that was definitely Oliver Queen's face staring back at her. She recognized him from the media blitz surrounding his miraculous reappearance after being presumed dead for five years. The photo looked candid rather than posed, though, and she found herself wondering who a guy like that would smile for.

But it couldn't be right. There must have been some kind of glitch in the system, because no way would anyone in their right mind ever match up Felicity Smoak, IT girl from Vegas, with Oliver Queen, slick, charming billionaire. And what would he need a dating web site for, anyway? He could have his pick of supermodels, high-society princesses, and Fortune 500 groupies. Surely he didn't need help finding someone.

Felicity broke into MyTrueLove's system again and went line by line through the code for the matching algorithm she'd used. Felicity Smoak didn't make mistakes, not when it came to code, but there was always a chance someone had found out what she'd done and took steps to change it. The code, however, appeared untouched.

Oliver's profile—she shook her head when she realized they were on a first-name basis—was surprisingly deep and thoughtful for the kind of person that popped up in the press in such a negative light most of the time. There was a touch of humor and self-deprecation that brought a smile to her lips, and his answer to what he was looking for was _gold_:

_I'm looking for someone who will accept my flaws without trying to fix me. She'll have to be strong enough to stand up to me when I'm wrong (because I don't always listen the first time), and confident enough to put up with my imperious (thank you, ) younger sister._

A bright green exclamation point icon popped up on the screen. Felicity tapped on it ("YOU HAVE A PERSONAL MESSAGE!"), and a message opened in a smaller window.

_91%! Clearly we have to meet. Paravicini's, 7:00 on Friday? 91% is obviously fate, and who are we to deny fate?_

"Ooo, Felicity! Is that you're looking at?"

Oh, God. Cynthia was approaching. Felicity tapped in the emergency sequence that closed all current windows on the screen and switched to an innocuous Google search page. It was a failsafe she'd programmed in herself in case anyone caught her reading saucy Tumblr posts about Benedict Cumberbatch. She was totally over that phase, but the shortcut still came in handy.

"I was considering it," Felicity said coolly as the much better dressed woman pulled out the second chair and sat across from her. "But the odds of finding a decent match don't seem very high."

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "It has proven results. _Proven_." She shoved her hand under Felicity's nose. A chunky gold ring with a bright blue stone covered two of her fingers.

"That's a costume piece, isn't it?" Felicity asked. "I think I saw it in that boutique I was in the other day, Pyramid? And it's on your right hand."

Cynthia huffed. "Yes, but my _boyfriend_ bought it for me. Well, I bought with him in mind. Anyway, that's not the point," she said, waving her hand. Felicity flinched, worried the ring would fly off. "The point is, MyTrueLove _works_. But if you're too scared to try, well, then, I think I've done all I can for you."

"As a matter of fact, I have a date Friday night," Felicity said. Immediately she wished she could clap a hand over her mouth. What the _hell_?

"Oh, really? Now _that's_ interesting." Cynthia leaned forward. Felicity would have liked to say that Cynthia's cleavage was wasted on her, but the other woman's phone rang. "Oh, I've got to take this," she said. "It's my boyfriend." She waved her giant ring in Felicity's face once more before getting up from the table and tottering off on her sky-high red heels.

As soon as she was out of sight, Felicity brought up the dating web site on her screen again and typed a reply before she could lose her nerve.

_7:00 sounds great! Meet you there? (I prefer to make my own fate.)_

Her finger wavered over the Send button, but Cynthia's loud laugh brought her back to herself. She tapped the button and let out the breath she'd been holding. The response was immediate.

_I like your style. Looking forward to meeting you, Felicity!_

"Oh, no," she muttered. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Two days. Two days to whip herself into a frenzy. Two days to research the restaurant (hacking the Health Department was simultaneously the best and worst decision she'd ever made) and choose what to wear. Two days to waffle about whether or not she should even go.

Thanks to the sick time that she hardly ever used, Felicity got out of work two hours early and went straight home to obsess. After she showered and blow-dried her hair straight, the butterflies in her stomach were so bad that she had to fetch a ginger ale from the kitchen. Sipping at the drink, she stood in front of her closet.

She knew exactly what she was going to wear—she'd been thinking about it all day as she'd run virus scans on the computer of a skeevy guy in Accounting. But Felicity was starting to have second, third, and fourth thoughts.

What if he stood her up? What if it wasn't real? Could someone be playing a prank on her? It wouldn't be the first time. She thought of Cynthia, the person who'd sent her to in the first place, but she wasn't sure the woman had the brains and the technical skills to pull off impersonating a celebrity.

Still in her t-shirt and yoga pants, she plopped down on the floor in front of the closet and pulled her tablet toward her. A few taps of the screen brought up the dating web site, and Felicity breached the system to dig into Oliver's profile.

She discovered that he'd originally created his profile about two months before his family's yacht had gone down in the North China Sea. It had been updated in the last week, but not by him. Felicity used her skills to track down the IP address tied to the update—it seemed Thea Queen had updated her brother's dating profile. The same address had been used to send the message about the date. Was Thea Queen playing a prank on her?

No, that was even more ridiculous than Oliver himself being the culprit. A teen fashionista like Thea Queen wouldn't have anything to do with the daughter of a cocktail waitress, joke or not. So either she was pranking her brother, or she was sincerely trying to get him a date. In the end, the memory of Cynthia's smug face made the decision for Felicity. She would go.

Her determination carried her all the way to the front door of the restaurant, where it faltered. Damn determination. She dithered out on the sidewalk long enough that a busboy poked his head out of the door and said the maitre' d had seen her loitering.

"I-I'm meeting someone," she said. "Just a little nervous. Heh."

The busboy held the door open for her and she had little choice but to go inside. Past the reservation desk, the restaurant was dimly lit. Ambience, she supposed, but it made it hard to find her date.

"This way, miss."

Felicity jumped. A waiter in a bowtie and long black apron had materialized at her side.

"That is, if you are indeed Miss Smoak."

"I am indeed," she replied.

He led her to what had to be the best table in the place. It was a semi-secluded spot next to a koi pond. An actual koi pond with actual koi swimming in it. Well, they could have been koi. Or very big goldfish. The waiter bowed and stepped away, and Felicity found herself standing across from Oliver Queen. He was half out of his chair, but something had stopped him in midair. She glanced over her shoulder, but she saw nothing that could have captured his attention so completely. Unless he had a thing for 70-year-old women in leopard print and dripping with diamonds.

He cleared his throat. "Felicity?"

She could only nod.

"You look amazing."

She'd thought she looked pretty damn hot when she'd left the house, but not make-Oliver-Queen-speechless hot. And not quite amazing, either. She had chosen a dark green dress with a hem that hit an inch above her knees. It had cap sleeves, with green ribbon criss-crossing the cutout on the top of the bodice. Her heels (three inches—screw you, Cynthia) were gold with a nice bow detail on the straps.

He was taking her in from head to toe, and it felt . . . flattering. There was no creep factor involved, and it didn't seem like he was undressing her with his eyes, either. He shook his head a little and rose from the table. He pulled out her chair for her and scooted it in a little as she sat. He looked pretty amazing himself, in a gray-blue suit that brought out his eyes. No tie, and the first button on his shirt was open.

"I'm Oliver."

"I know who you are," she said, spreading her napkin in her lap. "You're Mr. Queen."

"No, Mr. Queen was my father."

"Yes, but he's dead . . . I mean, he drowned. And you didn't, which is why you're here, listening to me babble. Which will end in 3, 2—" She knocked her fork off the table. She moved to pick it up, and then realized she'd be giving him an excellent view down the front of her dress if she bent over.

Oliver reached out and closed his hand over hers. "The waiter will get it," he said.

The same bowtie, apron-wearing waiter appeared, swept up the fork, and replaced it with a new one, seemingly in one graceful motion.

"That guy is wasted in food service," Felicity muttered. "He should be in the ballet."

Oliver gave her hand a squeeze and then let go. "I don't know if you've been here before, but their tilapia scaloppine is excellent."

She laughed, opening her menu. "I went to MIT on a full scholarship. I most definitely have not been here before."

He was quiet long enough that she risked a glance. He was staring at her. She didn't want to meet his gaze but was drawn there anyway, the heat of a blush creeping up her neck.

"What?" she finally asked when she couldn't take the silence anymore. "Do I have lipstick on my teeth?"

He smiled. It reminded her of the expression on his face in his profile photo, only softer somehow. Precious. Oh God, did she really just think that? Oliver Queen, _precious_?

"No," he said. "Honestly I'm a little intimidated right now. I never finished school."

"Why not?" Felicity asked. "It couldn't have been money. I've seen your house." Her mouth dropped open. "On TV, I mean. I wasn't stalking you. That would be sincerely creepy, and I'm just going to stop speaking."

He tilted his head, and his smile widened. "I had this little problem where I kept getting kicked out."

The waiter returned to take their orders. Flustered, Felicity ordered the first thing she saw. Thank goodness her eyes had lit on the list of entrees, or she could have been stuck with nothing but garlic bread. She took a long swallow of wine, hoping it would settle her nerves. Why was she so nervous? It was Oliver Queen, true, but it was _Oliver Queen_. Obviously this wasn't going to go anywhere.

"I have a confession to make," Oliver said, leaning forward after the waiter left.

"Here it is," Felicity mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing, sorry. What were you saying?" She leaned forward too, resting her chin on her hand, giving her full attention to what was sure to be a well-crafted it's-not-going-to-work-out speech.

"I have a confession to make," he said again. "I didn't write that dating profile."

"Oh, I know." As soon as it was out of her mouth, she clapped her hand over her lips. She couldn't even think of a good way to back out of that one. She blamed his eyes. Stupid, entrancing Oliver-eyes.

"You do?" He looked confused. "Did Thea tell you?"

"Um, not exactly."

Oliver's eyebrows rose. He was clearly waiting for an explanation.

"I may have done a little nosing around in MyTrueLove's system," she said.

"You _hacked_ a dating web site?"

Felicity shushed him. "Keep your voice down. It's not exactly legal, but I had to check you out . . . Not 'check you out' check you out. I just meant—"

"I know what you meant," he said. "Go on."

"I dug into your profile," Felicity explained. "I found out your profile had been inactive since you first registered, until about a week ago, when your sister updated it and, I assume, set up this date."

"You found out all of that yourself without asking anyone?"

"Oh, sure. It's pretty simple, really, if you know how to read code. Writing my own match algorithm was a little trickier, but—"

Oliver held up his hand. "Wait. Are you telling me you did your own matching? You hunted me down?"

Her eyes widened. "No, no, nothing like that, I promise," she said. "I just tweaked their system so that I'd get actual matches instead of a huge pool of candidates. I don't know how your sister found me if she had anything like the regular results to wade through."

"You hacked the system to make it work better?" he asked.

"Just for me," Felicity said. "It seemed intrusive to set the same algorithm for everyone. Maybe they like a lot of choices."

He laughed, and she wanted nothing more than to hear it again. It was better than his smile . . . Well, maybe not _that_ good, but almost.

"You are remarkable," he said.

"Thank you for remarking on it," she replied, smiling.

The awkwardness seemed to have dissipated by then. Conversation flowed easier now that they had cleared the air about their less-than-conventional meeting. By the time dessert arrived, Oliver had moved his chair around the table so he could sit closer to her, and she felt brave enough to feed him a bite of her panna cotta. A drop of raspberry glace dripped down his chin, and Felicity laughed, wiping it away with her thumb. She was just finishing off her coffee when he sat back in his chair.

"As much as I've enjoyed the evening, I'm afraid I have to be going," he said. "I have an early-morning appointment with my contractor."

She braced herself for the inevitable brush-off.

"But I'd really like to see you again, if that's all right with you."

"Yeah, yeah . . . wait, _what_?"

He was standing now with his hand outstretched. She took it and he drew her to her feet.

"I'm asking for a second date," Oliver clarified.

"Um, okay. Wow, that's . . . that's unexpected." She looked around for cameras because this was surreal enough to make her wonder if she was unsuspectingly on some reality show.

"Is—is that a yes?" He seemed unsure of himself. Oliver Queen, unsure of himself. Because of _her_.

"Oh, it's a hell yes," she assured him.

Oliver led her out of the restaurant, where they lingered on the sidewalk. His hand still rested at the small of her back.

"So . . ." she began as he finally dropped his hand and turned to face her.

"So. I'm pretty sure this is where I ask for your number," he said. "Since my sister knows my password."

"Well, yeah, you used your birthday. Classic amateur move."

Oliver raised an eyebrow.

"What? I hacked a private company's web site and changed their trademarked code to work in my favor, and you're getting twitchy because I know your _password_?" she asked.

That smile again. The butterflies in her stomach were back.

They traded phone numbers, though Felicity determined she would absolutely not call him first. This was Oliver Queen, and she'd be damned if she was going to make the first move.

Somehow in all the maneuvering to get phones out of pockets and purses, her hand ended up in his. She stared down at their intertwined fingers, not sure how it had happened. With his free hand, he tilted up her chin to meet his gaze.

"I had a great time, Felicity," he said. "I'm really looking forward to seeing you again."

"Me too," she breathed. "I mean _I'm_ looking forward to seeing _you_ again, not looking forward to see myself, because I'll be doing that at home as soon as I look in the mirror, and that's just—"

His lips on hers drove every word she'd ever known out of her mind. The kiss was _that_ good. It was sweet, not too deep for a first-date kiss, but there was just something different about it, some kind of electric charge that fizzed from her lips down to her toes and back out her fingertips.

He pulled away just as she ran out of breath. If they were in an anime, he'd totally be making heart-eyes at her right then. What the hell? It was Oliver Queen!

"You have to stop that," he said.

"Stop what?"

"I can tell you're enjoying the moment, and then all of a sudden your face falls like you've convinced yourself Oliver Queen would never be interested in you."

"Well, can you blame me?" Felicity asked.

"Of course not, but you are so very wrong, Felicity Smoak." He was cupping her face with both hands, and it was very hard for her to concentrate on what he was saying. "I wouldn't ask you out again for the hell of it."

She thought Oliver might kiss her again. He leaned in a little, but something in her face seemed to change his mind. Possibly her expression was a little deer-in-the-headlights. Instead he pressed his forehead to hers for a brief moment, squeezed her hand, and whispered goodnight.

Felicity stared after him for a moment as he walked away, then started humming to herself as she headed toward her car. Sneaking a glance back, she saw that he was watching her over his shoulder, smiling that soft smile again that made her legs all jibbly. It was good to be wrong.

Playlist

"If We Ever Meet Again"—Timbaland and Katy Perry

"Hello"—Lionel Richie

"All of Me"—Billie Holiday

"Return to Me"—Dean Martin

"She's Got a Way"—Billy Joel

"Songbird"—Eva Cassidy

"Whisper in Her Ear"—The Milk Carton Kids

"More than Words"—Extreme


	5. Chapter 5--Crash and Burn

**Title: Crash and Burn (Masque)  
Word Count: 6136**

**Notes: **I'm so sorry this update is late—it's my fault and Twink had to wait on me to get my crap together. I had to drop two AU prompts before I finally got this one to work out. :/ Anyway, here it is, so thanks for your patience over the last few days. :D Thanks for reading, and I know we're looking forward to your reviews/comments! :D

* * *

Felicity sighs as she looks at the shoddy job the crew has done with the car, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, probably smearing more grease across her forehead. The carburetor is in horrible shape, and the timing belt is _way_ off. Not to mention the sludge around the engine, or the way it's leaking oil like Niagara Falls leaks water. And that doesn't even _begin_ to cover the issue of the transmission; she cringed when she heard the way it groaned when they drove it into the garage

She thought this was supposed to be a major operation and that, by joining a team like _Queen Racing_, she would see quality cars and racing operations. But apparently they, too, aren't immune to a slipshod operation and lazy employees. Still, she imagined something better when she signed on with them because Queen Racing has won in point total championships for the past three years, and, well, Felicity figured they would have facilities to go with it. Facilities, yes, but employees? Not so much.

She sighs again, this time diving into the car with enthusiasm, leaning over the low hood to see what she can do to fix the poor thing. "What did the bad driver do to you?" she murmurs at it as she works, pulling a tray of wrenches and sockets over to her, frowning when she notices that they're still using SAE wrenches. It's ridiculous, really; everyone knows that metric allows for less variance and tighter tolerances—any mechanic worth their salt should have converted the car _years_ ago. Now she's starting to see that the Queens are winning on luck, not skill. And, well, Felicity Smoak is the one person in the world who would rather be _good_ than _lucky_.

Something latches onto her ponytail, yanking it back, and she nearly hits her head on the hood of the car when she startles upright. She shouldn't be surprised to see those mischievous amber eyes staring back at her, his coveralls red instead of green as if he's just daring to be different. But, then again, Roy Harper seems to march to the beat of his own drum, and he's a good enough mechanic that they let him for fear he'll go over to the Merlyn team—the only real competition Queen Racing gets these days, even if it _is_ friendly.

"Hey, Blondie," he says, the faintest hint of a smile on his face, "we need to get you out of this garage. The last guy through here that started talking to the car ended up being carted out in an ambulance and a straightjacket." He shrugs. "Guy just up and started screaming about being Count Dracula or something."

Felicity rolls her eyes, diving back into the car with a wrench, frustrated when the grease on the bolt keeps it from turning. "Yeah, well," she promises dryly, "I promise not to take whatever drugs he was on, okay? I talk to my machinery—it's good for their self-confidence." She bites back a smile. "And, besides, I'm okay as long as they don't start talking back." Felicity pulls her right hand out of the car to point to the where the rollerboards are stored. "He ran over a blown tire in Lap One-Ninety-Six, and it could have damaged the chassis—your turn to crawl under the car."

He groans, but she hears him stomping away. Roy seems to like pretending to give her grief, but so far he's done everything he's asked of her. "Did I mention the last boss was nicer?" he asks her in reply, from across the garage.

She doesn't hide the smile this time, especially because she's mostly inside the hood of the car now. "Your last boss wasn't as pretty," she counters. "There has to be a trade off somewhere. And don't think I can't tell when you're staring at my ass, by the way, because I can. If I wasn't so nice, I would file sexual harassment charges."

His voice is unapologetic when he answers, muffled under the car, "Not a lot else here to look at. And, besides, it's not like I _want_ to. You're like a thousand years too old for me." At that comment, she pulls out of the car and grabs a tiny five-sixteenths wrench and throws it at his exposed legs, nailing him in the knee. "Ow, hey!" he yells, and they both laugh as Felicity goes back to work under the hood. "And I can think of five other people you could throw a sexual harassment suit at before me—starting with our fearless leader."

She swaps for a different wrench, frowning when she grabs the wrong one. "You know," she muses as she tightens the bolt, "I've never met Oliver Queen." Apparently he isn't one to visit the lowly mechanics because she hasn't seen him since she started three months ago.

"Let's hope your luck holds, then," Roy answers dryly. "The guy's a dick, but I guess women seem to like that about him." He pauses a moment, and Felicity can see him tilting his head to the side, thinking about the statement before correcting it. "Well, maybe not—there's a different one on his arm every time."

Before she can respond, voices echo through the garage, and she can make out the words, "...just one-point-five seconds, Oliver. He beat your qualifying time, sure, but your car hasn't been taken care of properly in five years—since Wilson quit. They just hired a new chief mechanic three months ago, and you're already three seconds faster than we anticipated today."

"Either way," a new, cheery, masculine voice says, "the qualifier doesn't mean anything. We both know that. Your qualifying times have sucked the last three years, Ollie, but you've still pulled most of the races out from under me every year."

"I don't like relying on luck," a third male voice says, and Roy groans. Felicity supposes this is Oliver Queen, based on that reaction; Roy typically works very well. "And that's what the last three years have been. You took some bad hits out there, and, let's face it, you're the only competition we have."

"See what you did, Blondie?" he asks her loudly, as though he doesn't give a damn if their boss hears him or not. "You said the devil's name, and now he shows up in our garage."

"Nice to see you, too, Harper," the last voice replies sarcastically, and Felicity rolls her eyes. Louder, he calls, "Can someone tell me where I can find the new chief mechanic?"

Felicity sighs before pulling herself out of the car, then takes the handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her hands on, then pushes her glasses up further on her nose. "I'm Felicity Smoak," she answers, leaning against the bumper of the car. She doesn't offer a hand because hers are covered in grease, so she crosses them. "What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?"

It's only then that she takes time to study him, and she realizes that the press photos that all the (_female_) fans wave around don't do him justice. He really _is_ just as handsome, even without the digital touch-ups for the pictures. Still, even if he is pretty to look at, so far he's seemed like a bear, and she's not interested in more assholes in her life.

The two men behind him are polar opposites; the one on the left is thin and wiry with a charming smile, the other broad-shouldered and serious, arms crossed over his chest. Felicity knows the first face as Tommy Merlyn, even without the black racing suit proclaiming the Merlyn Global label over his chest. The other, however, is a mystery to her, though she guesses he's a co-worker, judging by the green coveralls.

Oliver turns back to the second of them, rounding on him. "I thought you told me we hired an _experienced_ chief mechanic," he snaps. "She looks fresh from Stanford, for God's sake!" She notes that he's perfectly okay with his chief mechanic being a woman (which she thought might be an issue), just so long as she's experienced. Well, _that_ she can work with.

Merlyn smiles. "Well, she may be green," he answers, "but she's prettier than your last chief mechanic." He throws her a flirty smile that does not a damn thing for Felicity.

She ignores him, addressing her boss instead. "MIT, actually," she corrects, and he turns back to her. "Unlike Stanford and Mr. Merlyn here"—she gestures haphazardly toward him, as though he's not worth her time—"I don't settle for being second best. I'm here to win." She crosses her arms again. "And, for the record, I earned my Master's degree three years ago, so I have plenty of experience."

There's a long, awkward pause, and the third man steps forward, extending his hand even though hers are black with grease. "Miss Smoak, I'm John Diggle—I manage the pit crew." She shakes his hand. "We haven't had the opportunity to meet, since your job is in here and mine is out there."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Diggle," she answers cordially, then turning her eyes on Merlyn again. "No offense, Mr. Merlyn, but the competition in my operation makes me nervous. So kindly get the hell out of my garage."

He holds up his hands and turns to leave, but Oliver stops him, eyes narrowing at Felicity. "_Your_ garage?" he repeats. "The last time I checked, you're just an employee. _I_ decide who enters and leaves this place." He walks up to her, staring down as if trying to intimidate her. Too bad for him she's been around pissy drivers all her life, and she knows they're all talk and no action. "If you can't live with that, I'll be glad to let you go."

She steps closer, moving her arms to her sides, refusing to let him try to intimidate her based on a few inches in height. Well, maybe more than a few, judging by the way he towers over her. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, so she decides to prompt him. "If you're going to fire me," she snaps back, "do it now. Otherwise, I have _two_ cars to get up to standards with three people, since the backup is a bigger piece of shit than _this _one." She jerks her thumb over her shoulder to point to his precious, emerald green stock car. "If you can't handle the way I run a garage, maybe Merlyn here can."

"Pretty, smart, _and_ sassy?" Merlyn answers from behind him. "I'd fire my chief mechanic right now if you'd agree to join up." Oliver shoots his friend a dirty look, and Tommy shrugs. "Hey, I'd be an idiot to pass up an offer like that. I'd never steal her because we're friends, but if she's looking for a change in employers, she's free game."

She crosses her arms after pushes her glasses up on her nose again. "You're in check, Mr. Queen, and it's your move," she informs him, surprised when he seems to understand the chess metaphor.

He huffs a sigh, frowning. "Fine," he snaps after a long moment, as though he's conceding out of the goodness of his heart. They both know better, though. "But don't think you're going to get everything you want." They both know that's a lie, too; he needs her to win this year, and he knows that Merlyn will snatch her up in an instant. Really, she has him right where she wants him, creating a type of job security based on necessity.

He turns and storms out, and Mr. Diggle follows. Tommy, however, stays long enough to say, "See you later, Felicity," again in that flirty tone, and she points to the door, reminding him that she wants him out of _her_ garage.

It might have Oliver's name on it, but, well, they both know it's _hers_ now.

Roy walks up beside her, snorting. "So, now you've met the crew. Lucius is the smart one. I can't figure out if Merlyn is Cal or Frenchie—maybe both." He nudges her shoulder. "And clearly Ricky Bobby is more personable in the movie."

She rolls her eyes. "You're going to make me regret watching that movie with you, aren't you?"

It's a rhetorical question, but it doesn't stop him from grinning as he answers, "Yep."

* * *

Oliver takes a deep breath before walking into the garage, already knowing things aren't going to go well with Felicity for a very long time, now that he's been such an ass to her. His numbers are gradually dropping every year, and he has to hold onto this success if he wants to prevent his mother from nagging him about not being a part of Queen Consolidated. After his father died, she begged him to take over as CEO, but they both know that he doesn't know a damn thing about running about running a multi-national corporation.

This was more his style.

Racing isn't even a job for him. It's more like making an appearance, saddled with the same fame and ridiculousness that he's _always_ faced because he's the Queen scion and heir. It's more like being that celebrity than a job, and it gives him the opportunity to have just as many wild nights as before. He used to like that, but now the nagging feeling that this is just a temporary phase in his life keeps him from enjoying it. He loves the racing, but the press is tiresome and the mechanics aren't as efficient as they used to be.

With, perhaps, the exception of Felicity Smoak. Even though he had attempted to put the little blonde in her place, it was nothing personal; it had to do with asserting dominance, something he's learned to do over the years of shoddy mechanics since Slade quit. But he liked what she said: _I don't settle for being second best._ Maybe she has something to prove, too, but he can't imagine what. He's done some checking now, and he knows she's one of the best in the business, possibly better even than Slade was. It gives him hope, even though he knows their relationship is going to be rocky at best now that he's screwed it up.

When he walks in, he sees a ragged, grease-stained pair of purple Converse sticking out from under his car, and he thinks it's probably Felicity, back at it already. Just out of curiosity, he walks over to the timecards on the wall and checks hers. She was here until midnight last night, and she was back in by six this morning. Clearly she isn't joking when she says there's a lot of work to do, and she's serious about it. Oliver thinks she might be a good addition to this team now, since she's clearly willing to do what it takes.

He walks over to her and crouches down beside her, not wanting to startle her since she's under the car and hasn't heard him come in. He watches her work, then watches as a grease-smeared, delicate hand with purple fingernails reaches out for a wrench that isn't there. "Damn it," she mutters.

"What size do you need?" he asks quietly, and he hears something smack against the bottom of the car. She shouts a curse that he's only heard a handful of times in his life, and he can feel his eyes go wide. Concerned, he rolls her out from under it, finding her clutching at her forehead. He helps her sit up. "Let me see," he says quietly, already moving her hand away from her head. It's bleeding—no surprise—but he's learned enough about first aid from his time on the track to patch it. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He rises to his feet, holding his hand out to her. She takes it, wobbling as she gets to her feet, and he grips her elbow to lead her over to a table. "Nah, not your fault," she answers. "I should be paying more attention—especially when I'm here alone late at night and early in the morning."

Oliver guides toward the counter against one wall. Its surface is covered with grease smears, but somehow he doesn't think she'll mind. He pats it twice. "Hop up—I'll take a look at that cut."

She rolls her eyes. "It's fine, Mr. Queen," she says dryly, but he doesn't think it's smart for her to have an open, bleeding wound with so much here to infect it.

"Oliver," he corrects, and she looks at him as if he's spoken a foreign language. "Mr. Queen was my father. No one calls me that, and I don't want them to." He frowns. "And I'd feel better about that wound if you'd let me look at it—and I'm not above putting you on this counter myself."

She blushes a little at something he doesn't quite understand, but otherwise maintains a solid poker face. "Okay," she says slowly. "It's fine, _Oliver_." She crosses her arms, clearly in defiance. But this is one argument she isn't going to win.

With a set of swift movements, he grabs her by the waist, and she lets out a small squeak of surprise that makes the corner of his mouth lift of its own accord. He's careful as he sets her on the counter, then reaches for the first aid kit as she crosses her arms and huffs, "I told you I'd be fine."

He wets a paper towel and places it to her forehead. "Then consider it my apology for yesterday." He hesitates. "I was worked up on adrenalin from the qualifiers, and I didn't exactly put my best foot forward."

She raises an eyebrow, and he offers her a tentative smile. "It's fine." She waves a hand as he cleans the spot on her forehead. "I've worked with racecar drivers my entire life—I know how they are." She shrugs her left shoulder. "They're all a bunch of bitchy little girls." He raises and eyebrow and she winces, waving her hands as she takes backwater. "What I meant is that racers are a little whiny by definition. Not that you're whiny—I barely know you and I don't think it would be fair of me to render an opinion. I just mean, that, in my experience, you're a moody group of people." She pauses. "And I'm babbling."

"You are," he agrees. Truthfully, he thinks he prefers it to her standing inches from him, forcing him into a proverbial corner. "But I don't mind," he adds. The remnants of her blush have started to fade away, but that statement brings it back with full force. He wonders what is going on in her mind that he's embarrassing her; Oliver isn't even flirting with her.

Both thoughts startle him. Flirting is a natural occurrence, something that he does to ease the tedium and boredom of his life. It has nothing to do with attraction; it's just something he does for fun, and, if it comes to some sort of fruition, that's just a bonus. But he isn't even trying with her, feels no need to attempt to be someone other than who he is. At the same time, however, part of him _wants_ to, but doesn't know how to flirt with her specifically. After all, the traditional route requires him to use a certain façade, and he's already laid bare for her.

Shaking his head to clear it, he focuses again on the cut on her forehead, using a dry piece of gauze to cover it before applying an adhesive bandage. "Thank you," she murmurs, not really looking at him.

His right hand moves from the sealed bandage on the left side of her head to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Somehow he ends up cupping her face, his thumb resting just below her cheekbone, and she closes her eyes for a moment.

"So," she says, positioning herself to hop off the counter, but she stops abruptly, and Oliver realizes that he's standing with her legs on either side of him, blocking her from moving. He slides out of the way, and she hops down. "Um," she continues, "if we're going to work together—I mean, actually work together to win this thing—we'll have to be able to communicate. Which means we'll both need to understand a little about each other's jobs." She picks up a wrench from the nearest stand, holding it out to him. "So, tell me, Oliver, how much do you know about what's under the hood?"

He frowns because cars aren't his specialty. He can drive one, he can tell when something is wrong with one, and he knows his brands. That's about it. He hesitates, pointing under the hood of the car. "I know that's the engine," he says slowly.

She frowns, too. "So, basically," she clarifies, "not a damn thing?" He nods, and she pats his shoulder. "It's okay. You're about to learn. You need to know where things are located, how they sound when they go wrong, how to work around some of these problems. It will make you a better driver if you're a better mechanic." She taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully. "Just like learning how to drive a stock-racing car makes me a better mechanic."

His eyebrows lift in surprise. "You drive?" he asks. Felicity doesn't seem like the kind of girl to take the kind of risk that comes with circling a track at two hundred miles per hour. He likes the rush, but he'd thought Felicity prefers to keep her feet firmly planted in the garage

"I could drive circles around you," she answers with a surprising amount of cockiness. "But more on that later. For right now, I'm going to teach you some basic mechanics, and you're going to learn how to turn a wrench with the best of us." She points to the wall behind him. "Grab a set of coveralls, and we'll get started."

He does, and he slides into them, watching her point to various parts of the car. "Now, you're right—this is the engine," she starts, "but not all engines are created equal."

He frowns. "But I thought—" he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Oliver Queen is not a thinker," she says with a chuckle. "Oliver Queen is a _driver_." She stares at him expectantly for a moment, then groans. "Okay, how have you never seen that movie? You're a driver—you should be able to get any jokes related to racing movies." She rolls her eyes. "And I just made myself into Susan, which is weird but pretty accurate. Except I am _never_ going to crawl on a table in a bar."

His only reaction is to say, "_What?_"

She shakes her head. "Oh, we're all watching that movie before the season begins. You're a gearhead now—you have to be initiated into our clique." She claps her hands before pulling out another rollerboard. "Come on, Ricky, let's go meet your version of Karen."

* * *

Oliver looks up from the grease-stained fingers he can't seem to get clean, expecting Felicity to be in similar shape. Clearly she's had more experience with removing them because she looks like she's never been in a garage in her life. She's in one of the fire-retardant suits that drivers are required to wear, and somehow she's found one her size, even though she's smaller than anyone else that races for QC's team.

She looks good—_surprisingly_ good. She's cleaned up, traded her glasses for contacts, and let her hair down, falling in blonde waves down her back. He didn't realize it was so long before. He doesn't even recognize her at first, but then he sees that fuchsia lipstick, and he knows. (Because, seriously, who else wears lipstick _that_ garish?)

She's only suited up from the waist down, letting the top half hang about her hips, and maybe Oliver's eyes linger on them a little longer than necessary. Her shirt is sky blue and short-sleeved, with a sharp slit at the neckline that's maybe a little more flirty than he expects. (He might stare at that a little long, too.) She carries her helmet under her arm, and, for a minute, he thinks she looks like a pro—maybe they should change positions on the team.

"Hey," she says, walking up to him, tossing him the helmet, "hold this." She slides her arms into the top half of the suit, shrugging it over her shoulders. The legs must be a little long because she has to reach very low for the zipper, pulling it up to the collar and folding the velcro piece over. She pulls a ponytail holder from her wrist, using it to put her hair back in a mass of curls that resemble a bun at the nape of her neck, just above where the helmet will land. Then she pulls her gloves from her pockets, pulling them on and flexing her hands inside them.

She takes the helmet back from him. "So, Oliver," she says with a teasing smile, "are you ready to see your record blown to hell?"

"Don't taunt him, Blondie," Harper says from her other side, and he reaches around her to hand Oliver a headset. "He's going to be damaged by your run as it is."

She shrugs. "I don't know," she answers, doubt coloring her tone. "It's been a while. After dad died, my mother didn't like me driving anymore." Oliver can feel his eyes widen in surprise, and Felicity shrugs with a partial smile on her face. "What, you think you're the only one from racing royalty?" She bites her lip. "My dad died in a crash on the track you're racing on next week. That's why I've put in so many hours on your green arrow."

He frowns. "Green arrow?" he can't help but repeat, wondering where she gets these things.

She shrugs. "With the nose as sharp as it is"—she pats the hood of the car beside her—"your girl's hood looks like the tip of an arrow. And it's a pretty green, so green arrow."

"Track's yours," Harper reminds her. "Just try to get a feel for her before you open her up—if you crash this thing, I'm not working my ass off until midnight while you walk around with a cast." He holds up his fist, asking a silent question.

Felicity rolls her eyes, but the smile takes the bite out of it. "Shake and bake," she says dryly, and Harper actually cackles at that.

Both he and Oliver move out of the way so that she can take the car for a spin, and Oliver pulls the headset over his ears. "Check, boys," Felicity's voice echoes in Oliver's headset. Harper lets her know that they can hear her, and then she's given free reign.

She does as Harper suggested, barely crawling at twenty miles per hour for a while before giving it a little more gas. She makes a few circles around the track at relatively low speed before pulling up to the starting line and to a complete halt.

It's only then that he realizes just how good Felicity Smoak is. Even over the roar of the car on the track, Oliver can hear it shift out—four times, and _fast_. She accelerates into the first turn instead of holding steady, and pulls it tight around the curve before picking up more speed. It's clear she's taking it easy, trying to learn the way the car handles, but he figures she's pulling one-twenty.

Once more, she pulls to a halt in front of the checkered line, and Oliver notices Tommy walking onto the track with Laurel several yards away. He can't focus on that, since Laurel used to walk onto the track with _him_, so he prays instead that Felicity can make them look good.

He shouldn't be concerned, because she does—maybe even makes them look a little _too_ good. She's through all six gears faster than Oliver typically run through them, even though he can tell she waits for a higher level of RPMs before shifting. Oliver chooses to focus on what she's doing instead of what Tommy is doing, and damn, the girl can _drive_. She's just a green blur wrapping around the track, but she's still managing to hang rather tight through all the turns.

"Hey, Red," she calls through the headsets, and Oliver assumes she's talking to Harper, "there's a shimmy at one-sixty-five—we're gonna need to fix that. And I think the transmission slips a little when going into sixth, but I could have just shifted a little too early. I'm gonna retry it and see how it feels." She slows the car down more toward ninety, and then runs it back up to the two hundred range, double-clutching through the shifts for show. "Yeah, definitely slipping," she adds. "And the timing belt is still off—it idled funny out of the gate. I want those fixed before the first race."

"You got it, boss," Harper answers, making notes on his clipboard in a scrawl that Oliver is almost certain is in a different language because it looks _nothing_ like English. They're going to be lucky to read that later.

"Felicity," Oliver says, "why don't you open her up and _really_ make a go of it? We'll set up the timers and everything." Feeling a little daring, he teases, "You haven't showed me anything I can't do yet—except double-clutch. But I already knew that."

She lets out a whoop of excitement, and Oliver takes that as a yes. "Why, Oliver," she answers in a voice that's almost flirty, "I thought you'd _never_ ask. Of course, I'll have to warn you—Karen may never go back to you once I'm through with her."

Oliver doesn't understand it, but Roy cackles. "You named the car after the cougar," he comments, shaking his head. "Of course you did. You know I love you, right?"

She chuckles. "Get in line," she retorts, slowing the car down and crawling up on the checkered line again.

Roy gives her the mark, and she darts across the line right after he tells her to go. She runs it straight, without any showmanship or double-clutching, but it's even better than the last go. She flies around the curves, hugging as tight as she can at two hundred miles per hour, keeping the car tight to the inside of the track to cut down on time. When she crosses the line and the timer stops, Oliver can hardly believe the digits across the screen. She's five seconds better than Tommy's record-breaking time, in a subpar vehicle.

"Jesus," Oliver hears Laurel say from her place, the two clearly yet to notice Oliver standing off in the corner. "You better watch yourself on the track—he's _on_ this season."

Tommy chuckles. "No kidding—he just beat my best time." There's a pride in it, even though the he lost, and Oliver is reminded yet again why the two stay friends; they both celebrate each other's victories together.

"It wasn't me," Oliver calls to them with a hand over his mic, and both heads swivel around to him. He walks over to them, unable to keep the smile from his face as he stares at the car. "I wish it was, but we all know I'm not good enough to drive like that."

Tommy's eyebrows raise, rightly showing surprise. "You let someone else drive your car around the track?" he asks, eyes wide, and Oliver chuckles. He doesn't share his car with anyone, and so it's a highly unusual scenario. "Who's the lucky bastard?"

The car pulls up to them then, and Oliver only winks. He feels ridiculously proud of Felicity, getting a high from it he doesn't get from winning. There's just something uplifting about Tommy learning that a girl can smoke his ass on the track.

She removes the netting, sliding out of the window like an old pro, pulling off her helmet and letting her hair fly free for a moment. Tommy's jaw drops, and Oliver can't bite back a chuckle.

"Sweet Mother of God," she exclaims with a dazed expression, a little breathlessly, "I forgot how much of a high you get from this. It's kind of like sticking a fork in an electrical socket, isn't it?" Oliver's eyebrows raise, but she doesn't notice. "I love adrenalin, I love this car," she says a little loudly as she pats the hood, walking up to Oliver before continuing with a poke to his shoulder, "and I love you." She waves a hand, a wide smile lighting up her face. "Platonically, of course."

"Of course," he echoes with a smile of his own. She's absolutely giddy, and it makes her beautiful in a way he's never seen before. It has nothing to do with aesthetics or natural beauty; it's more to do with the light dusting of blush across her face, the way her eyes sparkle. She just has a special sort of radiance about her caused by the excitement, and Oliver thinks it might just be contagious.

With one swift movement he doesn't expect, she places her hand against the back of his head tilting it down as she stands on her toes. Felicity's lips brush against his for the briefest of moments. Then she releases him, the blush on her face going wild as she says, "Thank you, Oliver." She hands him her helmet, not looking at him now.

"Anytime, Felicity," he answers as she unzips the suit and shrugs out of the top half. His answer only makes her blush deepen, and he surprises himself because he kind of wants to kiss her again, but perhaps this time not so chastely. Still, he knows it's better for both of them if he doesn't.

After all, if there's one lesson he's learned on the track, it's that pushing it too much, too fast will only cause him to crash and burn.

Still, he can't resist. "What the hell," he mutters to himself, and it causes Felicity to look up. He places his hand just above her elbow, using a crooked finger under her chin to tilt her head up. Her eyes widen in realization just seconds before his mouth meets hers.

She stiffens under him for a moment, but then something clatters to the ground—her helmet, he presumes—and both of her arms are around his neck as she returns the kiss with more enthusiasm than he expected. Somehow one of his hands ends up dipping down under the suit to grab her hip. The other one cups the back of her head and part of her neck.

When they finally break apart, they're both gasping for air, but Felicity manages to bite her lip, flushing again as she realizes that she and Oliver have an audience for the exchange. "You should take her around the track a few times," she says finally, breathless. "See if you can hear and feel those problems I mentioned. The timing belt isn't so much an issue for you, but you need to know a shimmy and a slipping transmission when you feel them—they could cost you a race."

She picks up the helmet. "I'm gonna get the garage ready so that we can pop the hood and see how well you can handle a wrench." He raises an eyebrow, and she flushes again. "Not like that." She points to the car. "She handles a little hard around the curves, so you might want to take them a little slower for right now—I can change out the steering later."

He can't resist because the opportunity is _right there_. He leans down, and, in her ear, he murmurs, "I know how to handle a few curves, Felicity."

"Right," she answers, her voice a little higher than normal, "of course you do—you're the driver." She motions to the garage. "Yeah, I'm just gonna—yeah." She walks away then, a little too quick and a little too wobbly on her feet, and Oliver smiles so wide it hurts as he watches her go.

Beside him, Tommy quips, "I guess I know who the lucky bastard is _now_."

* * *

_Playlist:_

_"Just a Girl" - No Doubt_  
_"I Just Wanna Run" - The Downtown Fiction_  
_"Liberty" - Buckcherry_  
_"Sick" - Adelitas Way_  
_"Moving in the Dark" - Neon Trees_  
_"Get Thru This" - Art of Dying_  
_"Party Poison" - My Chemical Romance_  
_"Beg for Mercy" - Adam Lambert_  
_"Oh Yeah" - Aerosmith_  
_"Urgent" - Foreigner_


	6. Chapter 6--Revenant

_**(A/N: Just know that whatever you feel as you read this, I was feeling it while I wrote it. I'm right there with you. :P)**_

**Revenant (Twinkie)**

Felicity remembered feeling something the first time she walked into the townhouse with her realtor, but that was nothing new. Most buildings over ten years old had some kind of vibe that registered on her senses. It didn't affect her decision, and she signed the paperwork with no second thoughts.

Having to hire a moving crew was a little embarrassing. Didn't most people have friends to help them drag bed frames up three flight of stairs and to trade "Pivot!" jokes with? It wasn't that Felicity had _no_ friends, but when the time came, she couldn't think of anyone she felt comfortable asking to carry boxes labeled "Underwear drawer—NO PEEKING" and "Lego Millenium Falcon—drop this and die!"

The movers were pretty nice. It was a small company—just Mr. Diggle, the owner, and his two employees, Roy and Sara. No one made any sarcastic remarks about the boxes and boxes full of computer parts, or her collection of novelty flash drives, or even the fact she had labeled each box of books with the title of every book inside it. They were even friendly, especially Mr. Diggle—or Dig, as the others called him. He didn't seem to mind that it took Felicity a glacial age to decide where the purple couch should go in relation the dark green one, and that she had to go through the whole process out loud and in detail. ("You're cute," Sara had said with a smile after Felicity had to count backward to stop herself mid-ramble.)

They were friendly enough, she decided, that a proposal to order pizza was not unwarranted. Roy in particular seemed very excited about the prospect of free food. They sat around the kitchen island and munched, the crew's playful banter giving way to chewing sounds. The sudden silence unnerved Felicity because she'd been increasingly aware all afternoon that there was more to her new home than just that initial weird vibe.

Felicity excused herself from the room to fetch the paper towels. While packing, she'd tossed the roll in a box to cushion one side of her _Alice in Wonderland_ cookie jar, which, because it had been in a box labeled "Knick-Knacks," had ended up in the living room. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she felt it. Goosebumps rose on her arms, and her scalp prickled.

"Oh, crap."

She had been able to sense ghosts since she was seven—she should have been used to it—but she couldn't suppress the shiver that rippled up her spine, and she couldn't stop herself from running across the room on her toes like the floor was lava. She snatched the roll of paper towels from the cookie jar box and raced back to the kitchen.

The movers left soon afterward, Sara surprising Felicity with a quick hug. Roy rolled his eyes at the gesture, and Dig smiled.

"What?" asked Felicity.

"Sara likes strays," said Roy. "She probably wants to adopt you."

Sara punched Roy in the shoulder hard enough to make him take a step backward, but she was grinning. "I like friends," she said, "and you are my new friend."

"Friends, yay," Felicity said with mixed enthusiasm. Sure, Sara wanted to be her friend now, but what would she say when she found out Felicity saw (on occasion, but mostly heard, smelled, and felt) dead people?

Sara insisted they trade phone numbers, though, "because you clearly need to go out after nine o'clock every once in a while." And Dig had promised to help her assemble the dining table and chairs that were to be shipped from IKEA any day now. As soon as they were gone, Felicity counted to twenty, and then she indulged in something she'd been daydreaming about for months. She ran through the townhouse, spinning through every room downstairs and upstairs, shrieking, "I own a house! I own a house!"

It had taken months of saving, and selling a few pieces of her soul to design a couple dumb restaurant-review apps and to rewrite a dating web site's match algorithm, but the resulting income had secured the down payment on her very own home. She dashed down the stairs and into the kitchen. She twirled, arms stretched above her head. She had a kitchen big enough to _twirl_ in.

Felicity opened a drawer—empty, of course, since nothing was unpacked—then slammed it shut, shouting, "I own a house!" She spun away from the drawer, thinking it would be fun to run outside and shout from the front stoop, when she ran smack into a wall. A wall made by the torso of a very tall, broad-shouldered person.

She screamed, reached for the pepper spray that wasn't in her pocket but probably in her purse or in a box cheekily marked "Lethal Weapons," and screamed again, slapping at the rather solid chest she'd just bumped her nose into. Large hands grabbed hers, and she opened her mouth to scream louder this time, maybe even with words, if she could think of any.

"Stop screaming," a deep voice said right next to her ear. Warm breath lifted the little hairs that had come loose from her ponytail. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Felicity caught her breath, trying to get her heart rate to slow back down to a normal pace. "Who are you?" she asked. "What are you doing here? This is _my _house."

"I know. I saw you move in," the man said. "And even if I hadn't, you just spent the last few minutes shouting that it was your house."

She looked up. Oh, crap, her creepy intruder was _hot_. And vaguely familiar. Something about the sharply defined jaw line that was softened by a layer of stubble, or maybe his deep blue eyes . . . Wait, was he saying something?

"_Felicity_."

"HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?" she yelled. He still held her hands, and she struggled to break free.

"I heard the movers calling you that all day," he said in a much more sensible tone than hers. "I like it."

Before she could process _that_, he inclined his head, his face even closer to hers. "Now, if I let go, do you promise not to scream?"

"Only if you promise not to do anything that would _make_ me scream."

"Fair enough." He released her, and she stepped back.

"What are you doing in my house?" Felicity asked. "Did you just say you've been here all day?"

He shrugged. "I live here."

"No, _I_ live here," she said. "I signed so much paperwork that my fingers hurt. The deed has my name on it nice and big, Felicity Megan Smoak."

"Well, Felicity Megan Smoak, I was here first." He crossed his arms. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"That is unacceptable."

Felicity made for the door, to get her phone and call someone, anyone, who could get rid of her handsome squatter. He stepped into her path, but she dodged him and headed for the relative safety of the living room. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he was following her, just in time to see him walk through the wall.

She screamed again, then clapped her hand over her mouth. She'd seen such things before, of course, thanks to her ability, but this was different. She had felt his hands on hers. She'd smelled his aftershave.

"Are . . . are you . . ."

"A ghost?" he supplied. "Yes. I thought you knew. When you were here the other day with your realtor, you looked right at me."

"Because I felt something," Felicity said, dropping her hands to her sides. "But it wasn't a big deal. I feel stuff like that everywhere I go." She approached him cautiously and reached out to touch his arm. His gray t-shirt felt soft, expensive, and very, very real. "You're so corporeal," she breathed, laying her palm over his heart. There was no movement under her hand. "What's your name?"

His hand closed over hers (warm—how could it be warm?) and smiled. "You haven't recognized me yet?"

She took a moment to examine his face, really examine it, searching for that thread of familiarity. "Oh my God, you're Oliver Queen."

His smile widened, but there was a sadness in his eyes that she knew well. She'd seen it often enough in the faces of the few ghosts she'd encountered that were strong enough to make themselves visible. Regret, loneliness, sorrow.

"You're Oliver Queen," she said. "You died. Twice. Well, you didn't die the first time, but everyone thought you drowned with your dad. And then you came back and you died again. Sort of. Which of course means you're haunting my new house so you can listen to me babble, which will end in 3, 2, 1."

The sadness retreated in the presence of his amusement. He was tilting his head and smiling at her, and it was _so cute_. It was making her knees all jelly-like.

"Yes, I'm Oliver," he said. "Nice to meet you, Felicity." He stuck out his hand.

She shook it. Her hand stayed clasped in his for a moment, and she stared at it. It wasn't her imagination—she could feel it as much as she could feel her glasses slip down her nose a bit, and the pounding of her heart. His grip was firm, his hands large, fingers calloused, she knew, from drawing a bowstring.

Starling City had been stunned at the death—definitive this time—of Oliver Queen, but even more so by the revelation that he had been the Arrow, the city's vigilante archer. His body had been found alongside his best friend's, Tommy Merlyn, in the rubble of a legal aid office in the Glades. Oliver had died trying to rescue Tommy in the aftermath of the earthquake that Tommy's own father had caused.

"I don't understand," Felicity said slowly. "You're so . . . well, you're hot, okay? Most of the ghosts I've encountered aren't even visible, let alone incredibly handsome, and I don't understand why I can _feel_ you."

With her free hand, she touched his face. Short stubble rasped against her fingers as he sighed, his eyes falling shut. After a moment, she realized all this contact was pretty intimate for someone she'd just met, even if he _was_ dead. She dropped her hand and pulled out of his grasp.

Oliver opened his eyes. "How does this usually work for you?" he asked. "How did it start?"

She chose to answer the last question first. "I was seven," Felicity began. "My dad had just taken off. My mom was a wreck, and I spent a lot of time hanging out with our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Clark. One night I asked her about the man who sat in the kitchen and never said anything. It turned out to be her husband, who'd died the year before."

She glanced at him. She hadn't told many people, and when she had, it had never gone well. She expected to see skepticism or even fear in his eyes. "Do you believe me?" She smacked her own forehead. "Oh, I'm an idiot. Of course you do. If anyone would, it would be a ghost."

He smiled. She kind of wished he'd stop, but she _really_ wished he wouldn't. "Is that how it goes? You see someone?"

Felicity shook her head. "Hardly ever. Mrs. Clark's husband was so visible because he hadn't been gone that long, and because Mrs. Clark hadn't let him go. Most of the time I just feel a presence, or hear something. Sometimes I can have an actual conversation, but this . . ." She poked him in the stomach. Oh, wow. Abs. Rock-hard. Wait, what was she saying? She shook her head a little. "This is so different," she finished.

"No one's seen me before," he said. "I couldn't believe it that day when you looked at me. Or I thought you did." Oliver sighed. "So what happens now?" he asked. "Do you light incense or sprinkle some holy water around?"

"What happens now is we learn how to live with each other," said Felicity. "I don't know how to make you move on or whatever, and I just moved in. I'm not leaving."

At first it was unnerving, unpacking with an audience. But by nightfall, their conversation had fallen into an easy rhythm. Oliver couldn't lift boxes, but he could move small objects and straighten pictures when she inevitably hung them crooked. She was really curious to know why he was tied to this particular townhouse instead of the Queen family mansion or even his ex-girlfriend's apartment, but it seemed rude to ask when they'd only just met. Felicity found out later, with a quick trawl through the internet, that her new place had once belonged to Tommy.

It didn't take Felicity long to get used to Oliver's company. He was more like a real person than any other shade she'd ever encountered. His clothes changed from day to day (on Halloween, he wore his green leather vigilante costume, complete with hood), his moods were different, and there was the whole experience of him being solid instead of hazy and insubstantial. It was like having a really hot, reclusive roommate. They got along well, except when he would try to make decisions for her. Oliver was very protective, and sometimes they'd argue when he thought she wasn't taking her safety seriously enough.

They fell into a routine. In the morning, Oliver would hit the start button on the coffeemaker. (He couldn't make coffee because he wasn't able to use the faucet for some reason, but he could turn on the machine.) By the time Felicity got up, the aroma filled the kitchen and her favorite yellow mug was out on the counter. Oliver would stand in the hallway to see her off to work. Ironic that she now worked for his family's company.

Early on, Felicity would often find herself reaching for her phone throughout the day to text Oliver. Just little things, like the antics of her so-called supervisor, or the gossip from the executive floor. Eventually she began making lists of things to tell him when she got home. He was always waiting for her at the end of the day. Most of the time he'd be sitting halfway up the stairs, facing the front door, but occasionally she'd come in and find him on the couch, legs stretched out on the coffee table, the TV already on and tuned to the news. (Control of the lightweight remote was easy for him.)

One night in mid-December, she rushed home to get ready for the department Christmas party that evening. She'd been dreading the event. Kevin, the guy in the cubicle across from her, would surely ask her to dance, but he smelled like celery and always stared at her boobs instead of her face. But Felicity knew she couldn't get out of it. She already had two strikes against her for calling out her supervisor on a mistake that nearly cost them a bank of servers, and for going over his head to present her ideas for network security to the vice president of Applied Sciences. She couldn't afford to miss the party.

Oliver was waiting on the stairs as usual, just inside the front door. He smiled when she entered the house. It lit up his face, lit up the whole room, and she could never help smiling back, even when she was in the foulest of moods.

"Party night. Can't talk," Felicity said, brushing past him. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

While she'd gotten used to the contact, she was still startled anew every time their skin touched. It began happening about a month after she'd moved in, the electricity, the tingle that fritzed from the point of contact down to her toes. Now even a squeeze of her cardigan-covered shoulder would send the heat of a blush creeping up her neck.

"I know," Oliver said. "You have to get ready."

"You'll be okay by yourself, won't you?" she asked. "I know it's been a while since we've spent an evening apart."

"I think I'll survive," he said drily.

His quick answer kind of stung. She shook herself out of his grasp and ascended the stairs. Across her bed lay her two wardrobe choices for the evening: a short gold dress with a slit that ran to mid-thigh, and a sleeveless ankle-length black gown with a high neck. She looked like a vampire in black, but it was her safety choice, her hands-off-to-Kevin dress. But after Oliver's comment, she was determined to look as good as possible and at least attempt to have a good time away from the house.

An hour later, Felicity carefully navigated the stairs in her heels. She'd left her hair down in its naturally curly state and switched her glasses for contacts. Oliver waited on the landing, casually leaning against the wall. As casually as one could while dressed in a tuxedo. He did a double-take.

"You look amazing," he said.

"What are you—wait, I—you're not going _with_ me, are you?" she asked.

He smiled and shrugged. "I can't leave the house," he said. "I just wanted to see you off in style."

He held out his hand. She took it and let him draw her down the last two steps. He helped her into her coat and straightened its collar. Felicity picked her purse and keys. In the doorway, she hesitated.

"I could—"

"You can't stay," Oliver said firmly. "You told me you don't want your supervisor to have anything else to hold against you, remember?"

"I know." Felicity sighed. "But I'd much rather go back upstairs and put on my Spongebob pj's and watch _Die Hard_ with you and a bowl of popcorn."

Oliver took her hand and squeezed it. "It's only for a few hours," he said. "We'll watch _Die Hard_ when you get home."

Felicity blamed the cocktails for what happened at the Christmas party. After the conversation with Oliver, she knew alcohol was the only way she'd get through the night. After two, she'd joined in the Christmas karaoke caroling. After three, she was draped over Jeannie's shoulder and her words slurred a little as she pushed Kevin away, saying she had to get home to her boyfriend.

Jeannie and Kevin both wanted to know all about him then, so Felicity told them about Thai food Tuesdays and Sundae Sundays, how Oliver (though she lied and said his name was Alexander) always spoke to her in a special, softer "Felicity voice" when he was worried about her or trying to comfort her. By the time she'd finished, she was crying, and so was Jeannie.

"He sounds wonderful!" the other woman sobbed.

"Why didn't you bring him tonight?" Kevin asked.

"He can't leave the house. He's, uh, got the flu," Felicity replied, swiping the back of her hand over her wet eyes.

She had to take a cab home. Oliver met her just inside the door. He was still clad in his tux, but he'd shed the jacket and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. The bowtie was gone, and the first couple of buttons on his shirt were unbuttoned. She was pleasantly surprised to see him wearing suspenders.

"Have a good time?" he asked.

"Not even a little bit," Felicity replied.

She kicked off her heels, and they watched _Die Hard_ sprawled on the green sofa. Felicity sat with her feet tucked under her and Oliver's arm around her shoulders. Her skirt had hiked up to display an extra inch or two of thigh, but she didn't care. Later, Oliver helped her to the bathroom and held back her hair while she threw up.

"I feel humiliated," she said once her stomach was completely empty. She leaned back into his chest, and he put his arms around her.

"Why? It's just me here."

"It was stupid of me to get drunk," Felicity said."But as soon as I walked in there, I just wanted to leave. All I could think about was coming back home, so I got a drink, and the next thing I knew, there were a bunch of empty glasses at my elbow and I was telling people all about Thai food Tuesdays."

Oliver arched an eyebrow. "_All_ about Thai food Tuesdays? Did you mention that I don't actually eat with you?"

She turned slightly and nuzzled into his neck. "No. I wasn't _that_ drunk." Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "They just think boring old Felicity finally has a boyfriend."

"I'm worried about you," he said, his lips moving against her hairline. "I'm the only person you spend time with when you're not at work, and I'm not real."

"Don't say that," she replied, pulling back to look at him.

He was gazing at her with a tender smile. He did that sometimes. It made her feel warm, like she was basking in the sun after a long, cold night.

"It's true," Oliver said. "I'm not the guy who died when that building collapsed. I'm just an echo."

"No," Felicity protested. "An echo wouldn't pretend to laugh at my LINUX joke. An echo wouldn't wait for me to come home every night. I couldn't touch an echo, and it certainly couldn't touch me."

She had two fistfuls of his shirt now, and his face wasn't even an inch from hers, but he definitely moved first. Before she could blink, his lips were on hers.

Felicity used her grip on his shirt to haul him even closer, and one hand slipped around his back and up into his hair. He was framing her face with his hands, fingers buried in her blonde curls. Her mouth was a cup—with her eyes she asked him to drink of her sorrow, and she wanted to do the same for him.

She pulled away only because she needed oxygen. Oliver wiped away her tears with his thumbs and then touched his forehead to hers.

"I love you," he whispered. "Do you understand?"

And then he was gone.

After three days of aching silence and a loneliness that penetrated to her bones, Felicity dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. Her heart might be broken, but she wasn't. She went to work and spent the day on autopilot. She ate lunch at her desk while examining code line by line. Jeannie came over to sympathize. Word had traveled around the department at the speed of light—everyone knew Felicity's boyfriend had dumped her after she got drunk at the Christmas party, and everyone denounced him as a puritanical prick.

She stared at her phone, thinking of calling Sara from the moving company, or even Diggle. But she hadn't seen them since that day, and she'd never returned Sara's calls.

At the end of the day, Felicity got into her car. She slipped off her shoes and drove barefoot, taking the long way home. She trudged up the front steps, carrying her heels, and walked inside, head bowed.

"Felicity."

She walked right into him—he was just inside the front door, closer than he'd ever come to stepping outside. He'd dressed up for her again, in an exquisitely tailored blue suit that made it hard to look right into his eyes. Felicity rose up on her toes to throw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her off her feet.

"I missed you," she said.

"I tried to leave. I couldn't."

Felicity kissed him hard on the lips, let go with a loud smack. "Please don't ever do that again," she said.

"Never."

Playlist

"Strange and Beautiful"—Aqualung

"Stay"—Rihanna and Mikky Ekko

"Answer"—Sarah McLachlan

"A Sky Full of Stars"—Coldplay

"The First Time"—U2

"Come Wake Me Up"—Rascal Flatts

"Turn to Stone"—Ingrid Michaelson

"There By Your Side"—The Milk Carton Kids


End file.
